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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871398">Two Words Away</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Stressed_Cupcake/pseuds/Only_Slightly_Obsessed'>Only_Slightly_Obsessed (A_Stressed_Cupcake)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And he probably would not care, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Finally, Gen, I threw musical canon and brick canon into a blender, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, My First Work in This Fandom, Or so I would say if I didn't know Hugo, Post-Barricade, The officer is a jerk, but I do, they use their words</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:35:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>58,476</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871398</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Stressed_Cupcake/pseuds/Only_Slightly_Obsessed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If things had gone the way they all expected them to go, they would be dead. The rifles would fire, shoot them full of lead, leave them choking on their own blood.<br/>Instead, the officer's hand never comes down to give the order.</p><p> </p><p>-------</p><p>Or; a canon divergence where Enjolras and Grantaire are arrested instead of being killed and then everything goes... Very differently.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras &amp; Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>297</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. If this were a novel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please note that this story contains a whole bunch of violence.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When you've always expected to die at the business end of a bayonet, finding twelve rifles trained on you is neither surprising nor especially upsetting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When your shirt is still stained by the blood of dozens who fell before you, the thought of your own blood staining that same shirt is less frightening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when you're alone, once and for all, death is not the enemy anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then something stirs. Not in his chest, which is already shaking with a traitorously fast heartbeat, but in the room, behind the guards. And then, inevitably, as the sleeping man's head rises, so too does that flame of hope that has kept him going all those years.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If even one of us lives</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he remembers that same man saying, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'll consider it a win</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the same time, he feels something else, akin to anger. Where was he? Why hasn't he shown his face until now? If he didn't want to be at the barricades, why didn't he just leave when he could?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't have time to think about that. The officer is about to give the order. The guards look unsure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's like shooting a flower." he hears one of them whisper, and he'd like to spit in his face, see if he still thinks he's too pretty to kill. The soldiers hesitate, and their fingers tremble on the trigger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras stands straight, resisting the urge to learn against the wall and close his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone else stands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Long live the Republic!!" shouts Grantaire, though his step is unsure and his hand trembles with the remnants of his long sleep. The guards turn to look at him, but their guns don't move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am one of them." he adds, and Enjolras has never been more confused in his life. There's a smidge of pride in his heart for a man who has never declared himself to be a part of anything at all. There's grief for the only one who could've lived had he just remained silent a little longer. But mostly, there's confusion as to what his reasoning is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Does he have a plan? Most likely not, since he's just woken up. Does he just want to die? That's not something he wants to think about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't need to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire taunts the guards, tells them to kill them both with one shot, comes to stand next to him. His eyes aren't glazed over with sleep anymore. There's a sort of tired acceptance in them, and something more, something he can't quite identify.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He extends his hand just a little: "Do you permit it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he's not confused anymore. Grantaire's always had expressive eyes. They say all he needs to know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is sincere, genuine, not a taunt or a mere suicidal ideation, but an earnest desire to be at his side wherever he goes. And if where he goes happens to be the other side, then that's where he'll follow him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, he still doesn't know why, if that is the case, he has refused to agree with him until this moment, but does it matter? They're going to die. There is a clarity before one's death, a sort of acceptance of everything, every concern that used to bother them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile blooms on Enjolras's face then. It's a grateful smile, and he wonders if Grantaire knows that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't admit it and never will, but knowing he's not going to die alone is somewhat comforting. His presence is reassuring. He feels the need to hold on to that comfort for as long as he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's why he takes his hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If things had gone the way they all expected them to go, they would be dead. The rifles would fire, shoot them full of lead, leave them choking on their own blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, the officer's hand never comes down to give the order.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems to realize something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to Enjolras: "You. You know the people who were at this barricade?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't have time to answer. Grantaire answers for him, with the appropriate amount of disrespect: "Yes, and I'm assuming you didn't. Or do you usually shoot your acquaintances?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Quiet!" commands the officer, "I didn't address you. If you know the answer to my question, though, you're allowed to speak."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What is your question?" asks Enjolras, coldly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man commands the soldiers to lower their guns, but doesn't tell them to rest: "Who was the boy with the gunpowder, who threatened to explode the barricade?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two exchange a look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why?" asks Enjolras, "Why do you want to know? I've seen you shoot him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He hasn't been found among your dead."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears Grantaire gulp and feels his hand tremble in his grip. They're still holding hands. And, just in case they change their mind about not shooting them on the spot, that is how they'll stay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras is not stupid. As much as he’d like to spit in their face and declare his victory, he knows deniability is the way to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's impossible." he says, "I saw him stop moving."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I tell you, he's alive." insists the officer, "Do you know his name?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're lying."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We don't know his name." Grantaire shakes his head, "He wasn't- or, isn't, part of our group."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The soldiers exchange some looks, some whispered words. The officer scratches the beard on his chin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're not telling me the truth, boys." he sighs, "I need a name. If you give me a name, I'll leave you be."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras almost laughs at him: "Liar." he hisses, because that's what the officer is. They're not going to let him go. They know very well that he was the leader of the revolt, and they can't really let that slide. Grantaire, maybe… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright." the officer concedes, "I can see this isn't going to work."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bellows an incomprehensible command, and all but two of the guards sheathe their guns and march towards the two of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels Grantaire squeeze his hand tighter. He can't blame him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the guards are pulling them apart, dragging them away, from each other and from the battered café, and losing the sensation of warmth in his fingers causes him more grief than he would ever be willing to admit. He imagines never getting that chance not to die alone again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Worse still, he imagines the possibility of </span>
  <em>
    <span>living</span>
  </em>
  <span> alone. He couldn't bear it, not even for a day, and he knows it well; he knows that, should Grantaire die before him, he would be well and truly alone, and nothing would matter anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he's alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems to be favouring his right leg when, a while later, he manages to finally look back at him, but still. For the time being, he's alive. He's not sure what happened to the other leg, but he can assume it had something to do with the slow, drunken struggle he tried to put up a while ago. And the grunt of the soldiers holding him. And the cry of pain that followed right after.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras, at that moment, has imagined the worst possible outcome to the situation, and he sincerely hopes the guards don't figure it out. Their bruising grip on his arms barely hurts when he considers where they're going.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They're going to prison. Of course. But first, because the officer seems to have no human compassion left to spare, they make sure to take the longest, most public route. Show off the fall of the leader in red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone might think it poetic that his downfall comes with the sunrise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The people stare at them, every face a mask, every mask a different stare. Some seem upset, some are twisted in a mocking grin, some are cold and uncaring, and he hates it. But he can't hate </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He's tried, so many times, to blame the people for the fall of the other barricades and by extension their own, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't explain it to them, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even when he's left alone in a damp cell with Grantaire, he can't tell him. Not even when he knows it may be the last conversation they ever have. Placing the blame will do them no good in the face of a dozen rifles or a noose in the square.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wishes, once again, that someone could have been spared. If Marius really is alive, it's good enough for him, but how can he know that he is, when the only evidence is that his body wasn't found? And even if he is, who's to say he will carry on their legacy?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows that, no matter what they do, no matter how much affection or lack thereof he and Marius have, no matter how small the chance that he might be alive, he should not reveal his name to the guards. It would be the highest treason to his cause to sacrifice the only possible survivor without his knowledge. Besides, he knows Grantaire would be angry, truly angry, for once in his life. He's adored Marius since the day he burst in gushing about some girl he'd caught sight of. And all the others. He doesn't want to think about them yet. He can't. If he does, the dam will break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other hand, what if there's an opportunity for Grantaire to get out alive? Would he take it? Could he force him to take it if he didn't want to? Would he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some small part of him scoffs that no, he wouldn't, because he's a coward who was scared of dying alone not an hour ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what if he did? What if the only way to ensure his survival were to sacrifice someone who may not even be alive?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought of that choice terrifies him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels about ready to bargain for his only companion's life, but only if they suggest it. He will give no indication of wanting to make such a bargain if he can help it because, the moment they find a weak spot, it's over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're quiet."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snaps out of it when Grantaire mumbles from the corner he's nested himself in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're very quiet. I thought for sure you'd resist arrest more strongly." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire's tone is, surprisingly, about as light as usual, considering the fact that he woke up from a drunken stupor to find most of his friends dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras tries to straighten his back. Look more confident than he is. "It would be no use." he says, "That would've meant being severely outnumbered."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And here we aren't?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his mouth to answer, but the words die on his tongue. Then he shakes his head: "I don't want to argue with you now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not trying to argue." Grantaire sounds genuinely surprised, "I'm just curious as to why you seem so passive."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's no point." sighs Enjolras, "We've been imprisoned. We're most likely going to be executed eventually. Like everyone else at the barricade. And even if we got out, your leg is-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It seems there might be one left though, doesn't it?" he interrupts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We don't know if M-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The boy with the gunpowder. Gunpowder boy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. Him. We don't know if he's alive. All we know is that his body isn't at the barricade. That could mean anything."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, it's something. It's more than we can say for us, anyway." Grantaire sighs. He rubs his forehead with a low groan: "Oh, I should </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> have drunk that much. My head is killing me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras is inclined to agree but, once again, tries to stop himself from starting an argument while they're locked up and possibly about to die: "Yes. Well, I'm not sure how much longer you'll have to worry about that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was sort of hoping it wouldn't be long, yeah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't-" </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, don't start an argument.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs: "Don't say that. You'd be at home by now if it were up to me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I disagree."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, this is more difficult than anticipated</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras's tone turns a little cold: "Why do you think I'd want you to die?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not you, specifically." Grantaire clarifies, "More like… the universe finally deciding I've done enough to bother you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He answers before he can stop himself: "It's not like that!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, of course, it seems to have taken him a grand total of three minutes to get under his skin. Not his record, by far, but still impressive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire smiles the way he usually does right before taking a swig of some drink or another: "Good to know, but you're really not the guilty party here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What do you mean?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't mean you want me dead." he shrugs, "I just mean maybe I wish I'd spent my extremely limited time with you in a more productive way. Like not arguing. Like… actually being friends. You know?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs deeply: "Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So you agree?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's right."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Huh." Grantaire looks like he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> wishes he had a drink right now: "What do you know? I really did waste my time with you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And so did I." admits Enjolras, "It's just… you confused me to no end. You did nothing but argue and drink, and yet you never missed a meeting. You didn't agree with me once, and yet you never insulted me. You slept through the battle…" Grantaire lowers his head at that, "...and yet you didn't run when you could have. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> you could have."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's true."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So why didn't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire is silent for a moment. Then, just as he's about to answer, there's footsteps down the corridor and his breath seems to catch in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to whisper to Enjolras, and there's something lost in his eyes: "Don't tell them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I would never." he assures him, and it's not entirely true, but with some luck he'll never know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reassured, Grantaire straightens his back and looks at the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's something strange about the footsteps. They're feather light, almost as though whoever they belong to was trying not to be heard. Oh, but they hear them, alright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They come and go, exiting the other side of the corridor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire slouches immediately: "Oh, thank God."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't thank him yet." Enjolras glares at the door like it has personally slighted him: "We're not out of here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire seems pensive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey." he says, finally, "What if I could pick the lock?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras pauses. It takes him a moment to process: "I'm sorry, was that an option this entire time?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sort of." he shrugs, digging into his pocket, "I just didn't remember I had a lockpick."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> you have a lockpick?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I genuinely don't remember. I think I stole it from…" he trails off, with a haunted look in his eyes, "...someone. Who had stolen it from someone else."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras is willing to let it slide, no more ready to hear the names of the dead than he is: "We'll need to time this right. With your leg, and-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Seems to me like your legs are just fine." he replies, already shuffling to the door, "That's all that matters."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Enjolras almost a full minute to process how colossally, stupidly self-sacrificing that statement is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No." he repeats, slowly, "We'll need to time this right. And get us both out of here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Unlikely."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, I'm not leaving."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That seems to genuinely give him pause: "Why?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's the point?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh… you survive." Grantaire says, slowly, like he's trying to explain himself to a child, "And then go on to take your ideas to someone who can actually do something with them. Someone who can help you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still sounds so infuriatingly calm. Like he'd expected to end up in prison with a possibly broken leg after, once again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>waking up</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>finding everyone dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Which is very unlikely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He decides to say it like it is: "I won't leave here alone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> between </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span> is implied. That might be why it seems to fly way over his head: "You're a charming young man, I'm sure you can turn a guard or two to your side." he shrugs, turning his attention back to the lock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you serious??"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am wild." he grins, and at any other time it would be alright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not alright. They're going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>die</span>
  </em>
  <span>, dammit. Quickly, if they're lucky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The less lucky possibilities flash through Enjolras's mind. There are two words on the tip of his tongue and, with the right trigger, he knows they will shoot out of his mouth like the hail of bullets that tore down the barricade.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Marius Pontmercy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can two words really trouble him so much?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, he concludes, looking at the man who has managed to irritate him with a lot less than two words, yes they can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's practically torturing himself at this point. He's pretty sure if they stabbed him he would hardly notice with the growing knot of anxiety in his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're doing it again." Grantaire points out with a heavy sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> again?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That thing where you stare off into space, way more silent than you should be." he chuckles, bitterly, "I know you don't want to argue, but I personally wouldn't mind talking to you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to bite his tongue to avoid starting an argument right then and there. Even if he gets the door open, he can't force him to leave. And honestly, Enjolras doesn't have the heart to deny him a conversation right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine." he concedes, "About what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Anything, really."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know what to talk about."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire thinks for a moment. A myriad of emotions, all dulled by the permanent curtain of indifference on his face, flash through his eyes. Then they seem to settle on a faint trace of amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You remember that evening, last April… no, wait… no, it was March. I think. I may have been drunk-" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Grantaire, back on topic, please?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right, sorry." he mumbles, "Anyway, it was late. And- and I fell asleep in the corner of the Musain. Typical me, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, but there's no joy in it. "Anyway," he continues, "you'd forgotten your jacket there. Probably because it was hot that evening. So I found your jacket, and I went to find you, but then I figured you were probably busy or asleep, so I-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Left the jacket on the windowsill." murmured Enjolras, "That was you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Twas I." he confirms, and laughs again, a little less dully than last time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras feels himself slip away for a moment. He does remember the evening Grantaire is referring to. It really </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> hot. When he left, the only people left in the Musain were Combeferre and a sleeping Grantaire. He just assumed…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well… thank you." he manages to say, quieter than he'd like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire smiles much like a cat: "Don't mention it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence falls again. It's almost comfortable. Then Grantaire shifts, and all of a sudden it's not comfortable anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You held my hand." he simply states.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I did."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras falls silent. But there's no point lying to make himself look better now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's selfish, but… I was relieved you were with me." he admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't seem to bother him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm relieved I woke up on time." he replies, "To see you again. I'm glad we got to talk."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Me too." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras pauses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We really don't know each other, do we?" he murmurs, and Grantaire nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not really, no." he agrees, "We argued a lot and talked very little. I know your face, obviously. I have sketches of you. I have sketches of… everyone…" he trails off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't know that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, you usually didn't look at me unless I was talking to you." he shrugs, and his hand twitches up as if to bring a nonexistent bottle, or pint, or flask to his lips. When he realizes he's holding nothing but air, he clears his throat with a look somewhere between embarrassment, irritation and pure desperation. Which isn't good. The hangover seems to be wearing off, which means that, soon enough, he will start to feel the effects of having no alcohol whatsoever in his system for the first time in what might be weeks at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you alright?" he asks, and Grantaire shrugs again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's fine. Just don't stand too close. I haven't eaten anything, but-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras can't contain a small groan of displeasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"-yes, I know. Gross. I'll try to get it on the guards."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That seems like a terrible idea."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Which has never stopped either of us before, as I recall?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, he can't say he's wrong there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s just about to reply when the footsteps echo through the hall again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a lot more of them now.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hellooooo...</p><p>So</p><p>This is my first work in this fandom and I am VERY nervous. Please be nice to me  :,)<br/>A few things to note:</p><p>- this is not a romance fic but it contains the usual amount of subtext so feel free to ship what you want  :,)<br/>- I don't have a regular posting schedule for this, but I am writing very fast for the time being so expect another update soon if this gets feedback<br/>- I am very, very sorry.</p><p>Leave a comment  :)</p><p>     Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Priority</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Shit.” murmurs Grantaire, and he feels very much inclined to agree. He's out of time. The lock isn't picked, but the way Grantaire sits there with the lockpick still in his hands is decidedly too suspicious for the guards to not notice what he was doing and, most likely, punish one or both of them accordingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless, of course, there's already a nice spot in the yard ready for them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Put that thing away!" he hisses, and Grantaire scrambles to hide the lockpick. You never know. If they aren't scheduled to die here and now, it might be useful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barely manages to shove it into his inner coat pocket before the door slams open, missing him by too small a margin. He doesn't let the startle override his neutral expression. The same officer from before looks down at him with pure disdain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And what do you think you're doing there?" he asks, though it's hardly a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cheers." smirks Grantaire, "I was trying to get the door open. Seems like we were on the same page there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We are not." the man frowns, "Not until you give me the name of the boy with the gunpowder."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The prisoners exchange a look of annoyance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Once again," Enjolras repeats, "I must tell you, we don't know him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer gazes at him, coldly. Then his eyes move down, to Grantaire kneeling by the door, and his tone assumes a touch of irritation: "Get up, you. You look ridiculous."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Never heard that one before." he jokes, but it's evident to anyone paying attention that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't</span>
  </em>
  <span> get up. His leg might be broken and, in addition to that, dizziness is almost always the first sign of withdrawal for him. It's clear as day that he's not holding his hand up to the wall just because. That's all the support his upper body has at the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Get up." the officer repeats, blatantly ignoring the two guards that have started to snicker under their breath. Grantaire shakes his head with a breathless laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm alright here, thank you." he wheezes, and there's another worrying sign. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I won't ask again." warns the officer. Enjolras has had enough. He stands up to try and help him to his feet, but the officer blocks him by holding out his baton.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wasn't talking to you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He needs help." he scowls before he can stop himself, "Which wouldn't be the case if you hadn't injured him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's a lie. There would still be the upcoming withdrawal to deal with. Still, the statement holds an appearance of truth, and that is all that matters in hypothetical statements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guards aren't phased. In fact, the officer only presses the baton harder into his chest when he tries to get closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's cute." he sneers, "So, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> you care what happens to him. What about all your other friends at the barricade?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his heart stop for a moment and the struggle to keep a straight face begins. The blood is already draining from his cheeks. He stops trying to push past the officer: "I was not the one who shot them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You might as well be." he replies, at the same time as Grantaire finally speaks up, thwarting any and all attempts to keep the attention off of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's almost like you're trying to make yourself feel better about shooting a bunch of students." he points out, quietly, but not enough that the officer can't hear him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was protocol."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So it was protocol to drag Prouvaire away and execute him, then?" hisses Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry, they did wha-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It would have been protocol to shoot you both dead, boy." the man spits, "Be grateful you're still breathing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glares at him defiantly, directly into his eyes, an unspoken dare: "My breath is wasted on you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer pauses. The guards are quiet, and Grantaire has fallen completely silent, safe for his wheezing breath. Still crushed by a revelation that he really should have been more careful with. Most likely picturing a poet's bullet-riddled body as it stops moving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe this wasn't the best approach to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is frozen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the man speaks again, his voice is both quieter and infinitely louder in his ears. Probably because he's getting uncomfortably close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I've had enough of you." he growls, "If only I didn't have the order to get that name from you, you'd be lying in an unmarked grave right now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras takes no offense to the idea of being buried where no one could find him, if it means he died fighting. But that doesn't mean his heart doesn't skip a beat when he thinks about his friends lying forgotten in unmarked graves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire seems to share the sentiment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wonder if one day someone's family will turn up here looking for their little boy and you'll have to tell them that you don't even know where you've put him." he snickers, but there's rage in his eyes. His hand trembles on the wall; whether from anger or exhaustion, he doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer frowns: "And you, I've had enough of you, too. The good news is…" he smiles, and Enjolras feels his heart shrivel up like a flower in the desert, "...I only need one of you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras knocks the baton away from his chest, blind but for one thought, one single word: </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He steps between the guards and his friend: "You would be a fool to try." he hisses, and he can feel the same protective rage that has driven him all throughout the history of les Amis, the same that has dragged him along its ugly path of blood and anger until he found himself locked in a cell, unable to protect the only friend he has left. It used to be in favour of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>people</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of that phantomatic entity that walked the streets everyday and yet was only as familiar as the alley cat he passed on his way to the Musain. In the past two days, it has shifted, slowly. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your friends have killed you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he told the spy after Jehan's death, for no reason other than pure, spiteful anger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn't sure where his loyalties lie anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire has no reaction at all, which may be the most unnerving part of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man scoffs: "You are one man, my friend. I'm afraid you are the fool here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands his ground: "Both or neither." he bargains, "You can kill him over my dead body, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> then."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Move aside." sighs the officer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Move."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No. If he dies before me, I swear before God, you will not get that name from me. You will not get a single word out of me. Not even a sound." he swears, "I will die silent before I allow you to kill him and capture the boy with the gunpowder."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence falls again, broken only by a quiet, wheezing curse on Grantaire's part. The guards look almost impressed. The officer, rather than moved or even disturbed, seems to be considering his options.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then I suppose you'd better give me the name." he concludes, "Or else I'll have to find some other way to get that information."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't like the tone he has. It implies something, although he can't tell what; it promises something, it's an ultimatum, and he has to decide. Decide, decide, </span>
  <em>
    <span>decide</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the officer raises his hand, the guards shrug their rifles off their shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One by one, they're cocked and ready to shoot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer doesn't hold a gun. His hand hovers over a knife sheathed in his belt, instead. There's implications there, too, and Enjolras wishes he could understand exactly what he's trying to tell him without having to hear him say it. Saying it makes it real, and real is a world of hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't have time to think. The guards pour into the cell like water flowing into a sleeping town from a broken dam, and there's no time. There's no time to evacuate. Only to run or die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears Grantaire shift uneasily on the ground behind him. They're trapped. They're both trapped. Because he isn't in the corner, there is no way that Enjolras can shield him completely. Because he can't run, neither can Enjolras, though the door is right there. It's only a matter of where they will attack from, except it's not, because they're surrounded and it makes no difference, they have no chance. No chance at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the guards hits his shoulder with the business end of the rifle. He doesn't fall. Thankfully, he doesn't fall. But he knows he almost did. It hurts. It'll bruise. But he's still standing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard scoffs and hits him again; a luckier hit, right in the sternum, that knocks the air out of his lungs and causes him to stagger back and fall harshly to the ground not a foot away from Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A lot of things happen, then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand, familiar, comforting, brushes against his arm and then is ripped away immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More hands, cold, strangers, grab that arm, and the other, and their grip isn't comforting, it's hard and bruising and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and there is too much noise. Yelling. There is yelling. The evening lights hit his face harshly through the tiny barred window of their cell. And then he's pulled harshly to his feet; his neck snaps back a little too quickly, his shoulders move forward a bit too roughly, and he's standing on unsteady feet, with an ache in his chest and a wheeze in his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the world finally stops spinning, he's on the opposite side of the cell from where he was before. His arms hurt a lot. His chest hurts more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the pain grows, because such are the laws of the human heart that to see an upsetting sight is enough to make it burn and beat and stop, irregular and dolorous pulse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer's knife isn't in his belt anymore. It's in his hand, and he's twirling it carelessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras hopes he'll slip up and slice his finger off. Maybe if he hopes hard enough it'll happen. Maybe if it happens he'll have to leave them alone for a bit; not long, he doesn't need long, he just needs to buy time and run. He's already figured it out: Grantaire will not go anywhere without him. Which puts him in the terrible position of protector, a part he's never played and was not expecting to play until this day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's something about holding responsibility over someone's safety. Or taking responsibility. There's something that makes him fear, above all else, to fail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't fail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you have something to say, boy?" asks the officer. His finger is, unfortunately, still intact. As is every part of him. All this fighting, all this pain, and the man hardly has a hair out of place. It's disheartening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he raises his head: "No. I've told you my conditions."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence falls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright." mumbles the man, and, without a moment's hesitation, he turns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire twists away at the last second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not enough to stop the knife from slicing into his side.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you didn't expect me to whump Grantaire... I'm sorry</p><p>If you did.... you know me better than I know myself, because I had a different plan initially oop.</p><p>Please leave a comment if you can, they motivate me more than anything  :,)</p><p>- Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Two Words, One Word</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There is lots of blood here and in the next few chapters. Just a heads up.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There's a moment, when something terrible happens, a single moment where nothing moves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's the calm before the storm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, the tidal wave of sorrow that is building in the ocean of the mind will reach the shore and crash down in all its destructive glory, and there will be no way to stop it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there's always that moment, just before the wave crashes, when the tide retreats and the sea goes silent. That moment of numbness and confusion that, as nasty as it sounds, is a thousand times preferable to what comes next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Enjolras, it lasts only a second before the wave crashes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes the form of a scream, quieter than most, more like a gasp: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire gasps too. For him, the wave is still building. There is a tiny splatter of blood at the corner of his gaping mouth, and his arms are stiff in the guards' grip. Slowly, they sag, and he sinks to the ground, no longer supported by the soldiers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer, uncaring, rips the knife out of his side and wipes it on a cloth he seems to have specifically for that reason. The bastard isn't new to it.</span>
</p><p><span>"You still have time." he says, "I'll leave you alone for an hour or so while you make up your mind. If you want me to call a doctor, I'm only a name away. Scream if you change your mind</span><em><span>,  </span></em><span>and</span> <span>make it convincing.</span><em><span> Marchez</span></em><span>!"</span></p><p>
  <span>The nonchalance in his tone is infuriating and terrifying at the same time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they only let him go when the bastard's left the room, wisely he might add, but he can't focus on him. He can't leave the cell. More importantly, he can't leave Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels something inside him break a little when the door slams shut behind him, but there's no time. There's no time. The decision he's been avoiding is hovering over him, hung by a thread like the sword of Damocles, and the officer stands above him with a pair of scissors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's no other way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wound doesn't look like it'll kill him immediately, but it doesn't look like he can do much to stop the bleeding either, without a way to close the wound. Like stitches, or a hot iron, or even decent bandages, for God's sake.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Marius Pontmercy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's two words away from his only chance at saving him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Marius Pontmercy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be so easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Marius Pontmercy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He might not even be alive-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't- even- don't even think about it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand, slick with blood, grabs his wrist and he flinches. Right. Blood. A lot of blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait-" he stutters, "Wait, it's alright. Here…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs off his vest and, bunching it up, he presses it to the wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire chokes back a scream, and squeezing his eyes shut does nothing to keep the image of Combeferre out of his mind. He would be so much better at this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know, I know- I know it hurts."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he isn't good at this. He was never good at this. He may be the least apt to do this in their entire group, but he's all the help Grantaire can get right now, unless…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Marius Pontmercy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't-" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beyond his closed eyelids, he hears Grantaire speak: "Don't tell them. Don't. It's too late. It's alright."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't. He doesn't- what if he's- we can't just-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We can't betray him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They know you know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire groans loudly: "Fuck!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are those the only two words you can say?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Save your breath." he bites his lip, "Save your strength. I've made up my mind."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has made up his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Marius Pontmercy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's so easy. He may not even be alive. He may be in hiding, and using an alias. He may be on the other side of the country by now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One thing's for certain, and it is that he isn't the one who's bleeding out a whisper away from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Priorities need to be sorted sometimes. There's a choice, and it's never between something good and something bad. It's between something bad and something worse. Would it be a choice otherwise? Would it be difficult? No.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's never that easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Grantaire turns out to be surprisingly energetic still, when he covers his mouth with (thankfully) his clean hand: "Shhh!!" he hisses, "Don't call them-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His muffled protests do absolutely nothing to dissuade him. He is </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and getting away from him would mean leaving the wound alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Choices, choices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't ever want to make a choice again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cranes his neck as far as it will go and Grantaire lifts himself up for the sole purpose of keeping him quiet (admirable determination, he thinks, but less admirable sense of self preservation).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just when his hands begin to slip, they freeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's footsteps coming down the corridor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's the same as before. One person, doing their absolute best to avoid being detected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only this time, they don't walk past.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Enjolras didn't know who he'd been expecting beyond the door. A stranger, a survivor maybe, if they were so lucky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not the supposedly dead spy from the barricade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Certainly not the infamous inspector Javert.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You." he breathes, and suddenly the looks the old man at the barricade exchanged with the inspector make too much sense. Not one spy, then. Two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inspector brings his finger up to his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You have an hour." he murmurs, "Before they come to see you. There is a secret exit. You must go."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And why should I trust you?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shadow passes over Inspector Javert's eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because you don't have a better option." he replies, "Don't be proud. I know someone who can help you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels Grantaire shift uncomfortably. Vaguely, he registers the feeling of his arms tightening around his waist, where the wound is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There is no time to explain. It's nightfall, the patrols are going to start soon." urges the inspector, "Run."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How did he miss it? How did he not see the old man freeing the spy?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you're deceiving us-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not. I could get in a lot of trouble for this. Run." repeats the man, with a hint of annoyed urgency in his otherwise monotonous voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels compelled to obey. He's been praying for a way out of that choice; well, there it is. He doesn't have the time or the right to question it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright." he relents, helping a rather reluctant Grantaire up by his arm, "Lead the way."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The inspector leaves them at the exit. The street is empty and Grantaire is silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans dizzily against his side like one seized by a paralysis; fortunately, that doesn't seem to be the case, but he needs help all the same. Immediately. Whoever the inspector's friend is, he doesn't live far, or so he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pressed a piece of paper into his hand and sent them on their way, shoving his gloves in his pocket so that Grantaire's blood can't incriminate him when they inevitably discover their escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inspector has very neat handwriting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the scrap of paper, even in the dim light of the only streetlight he doesn't avoid, he can clearly read: </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>   55 Rue Plumet</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't know where that is, exactly. Thankfully, Grantaire knows, because no one knows Paris better than he does. No one alive, at least. He gives him a couple pointers and then goes silent again, drowsy from blood loss and the remnants of his hangover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rue Plumet is hardly ten minutes away from the prison and it's still too much. At one point, Grantaire loses consciousness entirely, and he's forced to pick him up. He's heavy. He's heavier than Enjolras. The only way to carry him without falling over in all the little alleyways they're taking is to sling him over his shoulder. It would hurt like hell, he's sure, if Grantaire were awake, but it seems to be keeping the blood in better than the makeshift tourniquet he's made out of his vest, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Number 55 on Rue Plumet is a big house, with a garden, and for a moment Enjolras questions if the inspector's handwriting may not have been so clear after all. But no, it's right there.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>55 Rue Plumet</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>No one is around and the fugitives' bell hasn't been rung yet. They're still hidden, for the time being. But they have to be quick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he swings the (for whatever reason, unlocked) gate open and runs unsteadily to the heavy wooden door, he is, all of a sudden, acutely aware of how he's covered in blood and carrying his half-dead friend to a stranger's doorstep. His hold on Grantaire's wrist tightens, and only the thready pulse he feels in his clammy hand gives him the strength to knock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment his knuckles touch the door, the fugitives' bell rings out in the sleeping streets of Paris. It sounds like a death knell in his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his breath stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knocks louder. Louder. His hand hurts from banging on the door, yet he can't stop; when the door opens, he very nearly hits the old man standing behind it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, God!" exclaims the man. He can't blame him. His voice sounds familiar, but he can't see his face in the sliver of light coming from inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could explain himself, say the inspector sent them, beg him to hide them, tell him what happened; he doesn't. His strength is waning, fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he can say, quietly, in one breath, is one single word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Because sometimes I wanna let Javert do more than one (1) good, slightly illegal deed.</p><p>If you're interested in seeing the rest of this story (which has already been written up to halfway through chapter 7), be sure to leave a comment! They motivate me a lot and I love to hear from readers about any theories they might have   :,)</p><p>- Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Like the Waves Crash on the Sand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>He's inside the house before he knows it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man locks the door and, with surprising prowess, tries to take Grantaire from him. He resists only for a second, only until the man's soft words manage to calm him down enough to remind him that he needs to let him help, because there’s no other option and pride and distrust can’t get in the way, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of a sudden, he feels the cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's been, for the past hour, covering his probably bruised upper body with only a thin shirt, soaked in someone else's blood and with not even his vest to cover him (he's used it as a pathetic attempt to bandage Grantaire's wound). It was hot during the day, but as soon as the sun went down, he found himself shivering from cold and exhaustion. Two days of battle, a day in prison and a frantic escape through the city in the chill of a summer night are all beginning to take their toll on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man squeezes his shoulder in support: "Rest, my boy. I'll send someone to get you. I will do what I can to help him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jaw is shaking too much to answer with anything more than a nod. The man helps him to a chair and vanishes into a room with Grantaire, carrying him with what can only be described as piety; it's nothing less than piety, and just as divine in the eyes of a desperate man. Then, he comes back out of the room and runs upstairs with surprising speed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras is alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would he allow the stranger to help if he weren't so exhausted that he couldn't move? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He said he would send someone. Who?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a spy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe that</span>
  <em>
    <span> someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> would send him right back to prison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But why would they do that? Why give him a chance to escape if they were just going to take him back? For fun?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't make sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of it makes sense, but there they are anyway. He doesn't turn his head when he hears the man speaking to someone, nor does he look at the stairs when he hears light footsteps running down them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Enjolras?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His name feels like a punch in the gut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice that dared speak it is one so familiar, trembling with uncertainty and hope, and he remembers very clearly what it said the last time he heard it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Fearing for his fragile sanity, he almost doesn't dare turn his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does it anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan is a little worse for wear compared to the last time he saw him. He looks pale with a sort of terrified hope, his hands shake with anticipation, and his eyes shine even when one of them is swollen and bruised. He's wearing darker clothes than before, and they're obviously oversized, which only makes him look smaller than usual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras wonders just how hard that guard hit him to make him see the dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no, he realizes when Jehan jumps at his neck with a cry of joy, he isn't dead. He's real, and warm, and there's still the usual scent of flowers in his hair, though mixed with the pungent smell of gunpowder. It's the most comforting weight he's felt in a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is it really you?" he whispers in Jehan's ear. He feels him nod against his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. Yes. Oh, God, Enjolras, I thought I was alone!" he cries, "I thought everyone-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry. You must have been scared."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was." the poet nods, pulling back to look him in the eyes, "You're here now. It doesn't matter. How is everyone else? How are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>? You're covered in blood, Enjolras!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm fine." he hurriedly answers the easiest question, "Marius is probably alive but I don't know where he is. Grantaire is… in the next room, he's injured. And everyone… else…" he trails off, "... everyone else… Jehan, I'm sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Realization is slow on the poet's face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When it dawns on him, though, when the wave crashes at last, it crashes down so hard that it overflows from his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry." he repeats, and he means it. He means it more than he can ever hope to tell him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan shakes his head slowly: "No…" he whispers, only a little louder than a breath, "No, I… they…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm so sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How?" demands his friend, "How did they- if- if they were captured, maybe-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Prouvaire. I saw it happen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan hangs his head then, and the first tear splashes on his loose necktie, in the shape of a little transparent gem. And God, he understands that. How many times has he wanted to stop and cry all his tears over the course of the past two days? How many times has he come close to it? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there was never time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was never an occasion to cry. His head is always so full. Even now, it's swarming with restless thoughts, of the dead, the injured, and the captured. It hurts. His head hurts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan's tears run dry in a matter of seconds, though, as they tend to do when he realizes someone needs help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you alright?" he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras elects to ignore the question. He tightens his hold on Prouvaire's shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How are you here?" he asks, "I heard you… I thought they-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A demoralising tactic." replies Jehan, almost shamefully, "I thought they were going to shoot me. I really did… Then they aimed at the opposite wall and one of them hit me in the head. I woke up in a cell."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You have more than one bruise."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan's eyes darken, but he smiles anyway: "They weren't very nice to me." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sor-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan raises a hand to stop him. He doesn't want to hear it. So Enjolras doesn't say it. He asks something else instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jehan?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who is this man? The owner of the house."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He is called M. Fauchelevent." murmurs the poet, and his smile turns more genuine, "He's been nothing but kind to me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is he a doctor?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan frowns slightly: "Not that I know of. I mean, he took care of my bruises, but that isn't… you know. It doesn't make a doctor."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras feels a sinking weight in his stomach: "Ah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why? Wait…" he seems to realise the problem: "Is it R?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I… yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What happened to him? How bad is it?" Jehan stands from the bench, restless: "Is it bad? Is it very bad?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras represses any instinct to lie or minimise the gravity of the situation. It's no use. It's going to be hard for Jehan, especially after he's told him about… everything else. But a lie would hurt him more. Especially since he can find out the truth just by walking into the next room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His throat closes up as if to stop him from speaking. He speaks anyway: "It's bad."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What happened?" insists Jehan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bites his lip. He could lie, but what would be the point?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was… we were captured. They wanted to know Marius's name. Grantaire insisted we shouldn't tell them, even though-" he pauses, taking in the growing horror on his friend's face. "Even though… I didn't even know if he was alive. I mean, I saw him get shot. Initially, I refused to tell them. The officer gave me an ultimatum and when I refused again, he…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't say it out loud, but his traitorous hand makes a stabbing motion towards his friend’s left side, almost instinctively, as the scene plays over and over in his mind. Jehan gasps, bringing a hand to his stomach as if he's been stabbed himself: "No…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes." he confirms, "He said I had until he… you know. If I told them the name, he'd call a doctor. Otherwise, I could just sit there and watch him-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't finish the sentence. It's as if he's suddenly forgotten the word. As if saying out loud is a curse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan looks horrified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, God, Enjolras. I'm so sorry." he whispers, and he pulls him into another hug. Enjolras doesn't fight it. They could both use some comfort after… God, after </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Jehan pats the back of his head. His tone turns even softer: "I'll ask M. Fauchelevent how it is. Do you want to… do you want to wash your hands?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only needs to take one look at the blood on his hands to know the answer: "I'd like that."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn't wash his hands immediately. He follows Jehan like a dog into the next room, where M. Fauchelevent, with his back to the door, seems to be dressing the wound. Beside him, folded almost carefully despite being completely ruined by the bloodstains, lies the red vest, along with scissors, gauze, thread, a bottle of some kind of alcohol, and an iron that looks to be slowly cooling off in the corner, but still has a worrying hint of redness to it. Combined with the terrible, unfortunately familiar smell of burnt flesh, it isn't hard to work out what it was used for. The old man keeps switching between applying bandages, swatting Grantaire's hand away, and offering quiet words of reassurance and soothing touches on his shoulder or his head. Grantaire, on his part, seems to be conscious, but only just. His lips move, only a little, but no sound seems to be coming from them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monsieur Fauchelevent!" calls Jehan, though his eyes slide to Grantaire almost immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gentleman turns around. Enjolras almost jumps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's been some time, but Enjolras doesn't forget faces like his easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before him stands, no doubt, the old man from the barricade. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm pretty sure this is not what poor Valjean was expecting when he gave Javert his address, but hey</p><p>Also yes, Jehan is alive because I do what I want and I love him.</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Lovely Marble</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fauchelevent looks almost guilty when he meets his eyes, but he turns to Jehan immediately: "Ah, Prouvaire. How is he?"</p><p>"I think he could use a bath."</p><p>"Do you remember where everything is?"</p><p>"Yes, sir."</p><p>"Do you think you could help him with that?"</p><p>"Yes, sir."</p><p>"Thank you."</p><p>Enjolras takes a half step forward: "It's you."</p><p>It's little more than a whisper, and yet it plunges the room into silence. The man looks decidedly guilty now: "Yes. I see you've recognized me."</p><p>"You were at the barricade."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"You were working with the inspector."</p><p>The man opens his mouth to answer, but Jehan beats him to it: "It's not like that!"</p><p>"Prouvaire-" M. Fauchelevent tries to intervene.</p><p>"It's not like that."</p><p>"So why did the inspector tell us to come here?"</p><p>"He-"</p><p>"Prouvaire." the man cuts him off, a little more firmly: "Thank you. I can explain myself."</p><p>"Then explain!" explodes Enjolras, "I don't understand! The inspector gave us false information, which put us at a disadvantage and, allow me to remind you, is one of many reasons the barricade fell…"</p><p>The man averts his eyes.</p><p>"Then, you volunteer to kill him and, apparently, you don't. Then you vanish. Then, when it's just me and Grantaire left, the officer just casually seems to remember that there was <em> another </em> person he wanted to arrest and takes us prisoner, interrogates us, stabs Grantaire and leaves him to d… to die."</p><p>He hates the hesitation in his voice, so he starts the next sentence even louder: "<em> Then </em> , the same inspector that caused this mess in the first place helps us escape and sends us to <em> your </em>house, and now I find you've been helping Jehan too. You say you can explain? Please, explain, because I have no idea what to make of you."</p><p>When the echo of his little outburst fades, the silence in the room is so thick it could be cut with a knife. Jehan is silent, staring at M. Fauchelevent in wait of a response, and the latter hovers over Grantaire with what can only be described as protectiveness, though he has a hard time believing that.</p><p>Until the moment he speaks.</p><p>"Javert changed his mind <em> after </em>the barricades." he explains, quietly, "For years before then, I have never seen him help a criminal. He let me go after I spared his life at the barricade and, I have to presume, saw an opportunity to redeem himself further in you three. I have not spoken to him. I will, very soon, but you cannot ask me to tell you what he was thinking. I can't speak for him. I'm afraid I don't understand him any more than you do."</p><p>There is a softness to M. Fauchelevent's voice, the same that he caught in his eyes when he looked at Marius. But then why?</p><p>"Why…" murmurs Enjolras, "...did you run?"</p><p>The man's face flushes with pure shame: "I did run, God forgive me, to save one of you. Were it within my power, I would have saved you all."</p><p>"Who?" he insists, as a sliver of suspicion forms in his heart, "Who did you save?"</p><p>"Marius Pontmercy."</p><p>Enjolras breathes in, sharply. He's not a spy. He knows the name.</p><p>"So he <em> is </em> alive. Where is he?"</p><p>"At home, recovering." says the man, "With his grandfather and his bride-to-be…"</p><p>He hesitates, then, quietly, he adds: "My daughter, Cosette."</p><p>Enjolras understands, only at that moment, the motives of that mysterious old man that was willing to go into the street in Marius's place. He understands, suddenly, why both Marius and the old man vanished during the chaos of the final battle. And, after those two days, he understands priorities better than anyone.</p><p>But his face must have remained as stoic and marmoreal as ever, because Fauchelevent doesn't seem to understand that. Having tied the bandages together, he finally dares to leave Grantaire's side and falls to his knees in front of Enjolras like a sinner before the statue of a saint: "I beg your forgiveness, sir! Had I only stayed longer, I could have saved more lives than I did, and now… now, all I can do is offer you my protection and my assistance, as I did yesterday when dear Jean Prouvaire knocked, still trembling with fear, at my door. No, no, what am I saying? You must not forgive me, now or ever, as long as you allow me to help you and protect you as I should have done before. I have money, sir, and a house in Rue de l'Homme Armé, and I can help you escape, if you don't wish to see me. Only, I pray you, allow me to help you."</p><p>It takes Enjolras a few moments of silence before he can answer the man's prayers. Him being ever the <em> lovely marble </em> that Grantaire has jokingly called him, the most he can do in the face of a prayer is nod his head once.</p><p>It's enough for the man. He squeezes his bloodied hands like they're something precious and, not without some difficulty, stands up and returns to Grantaire, all the while expressing his gratitude through word and action alike.</p><p>Enjolras doesn't address it.</p><p>"How is he?" he asks, instead.</p><p>Grantaire seems to be completely unconscious again.</p><p>"I will keep guard over him." replies M. Fauchelevent, "He must be guarded, I say. I am no doctor, although I believe the alcohol and the burn should prevent infection. I shall check on him frequently. Now please, Prouvaire, would you help him get cleaned up?"</p><p>"Immediately." Jehan agrees, and Enjolras allows him to push him out of the room with no resistance beyond a single glance back at Grantaire and Fauchelevent.</p><p> </p><p>"You need a bath." Jehan declares, throwing the first bucket of water into the tub.</p><p>Enjolras is inclined to agree. The blood on his hands has gone from slick, to sticky, to crusty, every one more annoying than the one before it. And none of it is something he wants to remember. Not now. Jehan looks fine and, if he didn't know him any better, he would say with confidence that he <em> isn't </em> going to sob his heart out the minute he's left alone. But he does know better. And he knows Jehan only feels better if he cries to someone else, not alone in his room or in some field.</p><p>Nature inspires him, or so he says, but it ends up amplifying his every emotion. When he looks upon a vast field of flowers with joyful admiration already in his heart, he returns with the eyes of a boy who has seen Heaven itself. But, when his eyes weep, so does the sky; the Earth screams and cries, and his heart in turn screams its sorrow to the four winds at the sight of such suffering all around him.</p><p>He needs a grounding force when he's upset.</p><p>Enjolras has never had that job and he’s never expected to have it. But it's all he can do for Jehan now. And it makes Jehan feel better to take care of someone.</p><p>So he allows him to help scrub the blood off his shoulders and his back, wash it out of his tangled blond hair, pick it from between his fingers.</p><p>Bucket after bucket, the water in the tub turns a transparent shade of red and Enjolras's skin goes back to its normal, smooth self.</p><p>Jehan seems to be at peace as he runs his fingers through his hair, focused on getting the last traces of blood and grime out with a thin comb. Enjolras isn't too happy to ruin the mood, but he has to start the conversation. He knows Jehan won't.</p><p>"I'm sorry." he says. Then, before Jehan can scold him for apologising again, he adds: "Are you sure you're alright?"</p><p>"I'm alright."</p><p>The usual spark of fond exasperation is missing from his voice. He is not, in fact, alright.</p><p>"You lie, Jehan."</p><p>"No!" huffs the poet, with less certainty than he should have, "No, I'm alright. I'm happy you're safe."</p><p>"I'm the only one."</p><p>He feels Jehan's hands clench for just a second on the comb.</p><p>"No." he insists, "I mean, yes, but… I'm still glad you're here. I'm glad you're not injured. Should I not be?"</p><p>"That's not what I meant and you know it."</p><p>"Just leave it." he sighs, "Please, leave it."</p><p>"Jehan, I just want to ta-"</p><p>The poet, rather spitefully, interrupts him by pouring another bucket of cold water over his head: "Not now." he smiles when Enjolras sputters indignantly, "Just let me help you. Alright? Just today. Please, just let me have this."</p><p>Today more than any other day, Enjolras lacks the strength to refuse either of his sole surviving friends anything. Especially something as simple as silence.</p><p>Jehan leaves soon after to give him some privacy, leaving a pile of unfortunately oversized clothes beside the sink. He himself has had to roll his sleeves up just so his hands can poke out of them. M. Fauchelevent is a rather imposing man.</p><p>He finds some form of comfort in the warmth the clean clothes finally provide.</p><p>For the first time that night, he doesn't feel quite so cold.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't know if lovely marble has ever been a valid translation. I'm reading the Brick in Italian  :,)</p><p>Anywho, have I mentioned that i love Jehan?</p><p>Leave a comment if you will, it motivates me a lot  :)</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Quiet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When he finally finds it in himself to leave the room, the fugitives' bell has long since stopped ringing. That does not mean safety, but it gives the illusion of it at least. An illusion strong enough that he can believe, as he's always done.</p><p>What does he want to believe?</p><p>Where do his priorities lie now?</p><p>He knows where. Downstairs, where soft voices filter through the floorboards.</p><p>Soft voices, and one loud cough.</p><p>The sudden reminder of where he came from and whose blood he just washed off feels like a jolt of electricity through him: it galvanises his despondent muscles into movement, pushing him towards the door and then the stairs. He hears quiet voices again, and not a word from Grantaire, which is both highly unusual and completely understandable. He might still be unconscious.</p><p>Jehan and Fauchelevent probably hear him coming down the stairs. Their voices grow quieter and fade completely as he steps closer and closer to the guest bedroom the three are currently occupying.</p><p>Jehan's sleeves are still rolled way up and so are Fauchelevent's, it seems, as they work on scrubbing dried blood off of a still unconscious Grantaire's chest.</p><p>"How is he?"</p><p>Their heads snap towards him.</p><p>"I don't know." admits Jehan, "It doesn't seem to be a deep wound. And it doesn't look infected. I wonder why he seems so out of it then."</p><p><em> There's </em> a question he can answer.</p><p>"Remember how much he drank the other night?"</p><p>Something seems to click in the gears behind the poet's eyes: "Oh."</p><p>"I gave him one or two sips of alcohol." admits Fauchelevent, "But, if anything, it should have helped."</p><p>"I think it did." murmurs Enjolras, "At least there's a little colour in his face now."</p><p>"There is." Jehan nods with a tender smile, "He's warmer now. When he wakes up he should probably drink some water."</p><p>After a small frown, he corrects himself: "A lot of water."</p><p>"And eat some meat." adds Fauchelevent, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn spot of dried blood on Grantaire's right arm, "The blood needs to reform."</p><p>Jehan nods again. He's sitting on the left side of the bed, holding Grantaire's left arm in his lap and cleaning the blood from between his fingers. Now and then, he pauses to squeeze his hand and smiles as if he's reminiscing about something. But they can't talk today. He won't ask.</p><p>There's something peaceful in the scene before him. Jehan's pensive smile, M. Fauchelevent stopping to stroke Grantaire's hair whenever he stirs in his sleep (like one would with a child), the soft candlelight and the silence of the evening, unbroken, thanks to the size of the house, by any noises from the street. Even Grantaire's sleep looks somewhat peaceful, perhaps dreamless, although the occasional twist of his lip suggests the contrary. It's almost pleasant to watch the three of them there.</p><p>Until there is a knock on the door. His heart stops. The scene is frozen. The warmth is gone in an instant.</p><p>Fauchelevent goes pale: "Prouvaire." he stutters, and the poet nods knowingly.</p><p>He gets up, pulling Enjolras away: "Come with me. Here. We gotta hide."</p><p>"What about-"</p><p>Jehan just points at M. Fauchelevent, who seems to be carrying Grantaire with less effort than one would expect. And more care than one would expect.</p><p>The man frowns looking at him.</p><p>"I need one of you to stay with him and keep him quiet if he starts moving."</p><p>Enjolras needs little more than two seconds to think.</p><p>"I'll hide alone." he declares, "Jehan is better at calming people down."</p><p>It's not technically a lie, but the two sentences are not in any way related. He's going to hide alone because if they find him he's fairly certain they will end the search then and there. If they find one of them <em> with </em> him, though, there may be a repeat of that day, and he is <em> not </em> having a repeat of that day, ever. He'd sooner die.</p><p>Jehan frowns, but there's no time to argue. M. Fauchelevent opens a secret door behind a tapestry and ushers Enjolras inside.</p><p>It's dark.</p><p>He can't see outside, but he can hear the floorboards creaking and the opening and closing of a large chest, accompanied by hushed voices and retreating steps as the knocking becomes more and more insistent.</p><p>He doesn't hold his breath yet. He needs to save it in case the guards get close to his hiding spot.</p><p>Searching around in the dark results in his hand brushing against what seems to be a wooden cane. Good. The presence of a possible weapon in the otherwise empty compartment suggests that this has been someone's hiding spot before. Maybe Jehan's. It doesn't matter.</p><p>From the next room, muffled by two doors and a thick wall, he can hear the conversation M. Fauchelevent seems to be having with the soldiers.</p><p>"<em> Forgive the disturbance at this hour, Monsieur. You were taking quite some time to answer </em>."</p><p>Enjolras doesn't recognise the guard's voice, but there's no doubt it's the police.</p><p>Fauchelevent seems to be playing up the <em>fragile old man</em> act: "<em>Goodness, officer. I apologise. I'm afraid my hearing is not what it used to be</em>."</p><p>The officer speaks louder.</p><p>"<em> Have you heard the fugitives' bell?" </em></p><p>
  <em> "No. Oh, God, there are escaped convicts around?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "The leader of yesterday's revolt, Monsieur." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Is he dangerous?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "As all leaders of such riots are, sir." </em>
</p><p>Enjolras holds back a scoff. Right.</p><p>"<em> Oh, goodness. I shall lock my doors. Thank you for informing me, officer. </em>"</p><p>"<em>Just a moment, Monsieur. Have you seen him? He's a young man with long blond hair, last seen wearing a red vest and possibly accompanied by a fellow revolutionary who was gravely injured in the course of the revolt</em> <em>this morning</em>."</p><p>He feels a sting in his chest. They said <em> what </em>?</p><p>Fauchelevent makes a show of thinking about it.</p><p>"<em> No </em> ." he concludes, " <em> I haven't seen anyone like that. </em>"</p><p>"<em> If you do see him, you are required to report him </em>."</p><p>"<em> I will, officer. Thank you. </em>"</p><p>"<em> May I search your house, Monsieur? </em>"</p><p>Enjolras feels his heart speed up. First the lies, now the possibility of a search. But Fauchelevent doesn't seem phased.</p><p>"<em> I'd rather not, sir." </em> he replies, politely, " <em> My daughter is resting upstairs and my nephew has fallen asleep in the living room. They're very frightened after yesterday's revolts and I don't want them to lose any more sleep over this </em>."</p><p>"<em> It really would be better if I could conduct a search, sir." </em></p><p>Fauchelevent's tone turns cold: <em> "I would rather not. If you don't have a warrant, I must ask you to leave </em>."</p><p>The officer seems suspicious, but he's cornered: "<em> Fine. I may return with a warrant, if Inspector Javert wishes it </em>."</p><p>"<em> Thank you, officer. Good night." </em></p><p><em> "Good night </em>."</p><p>A few moments later, the door shuts and the lock clicks twice. The blinds slam closed and then finally, <em> finally </em>, Fauchelevent is back into the room.</p><p>"He's gone." he murmurs, first opening the chest Jehan and Grantaire are hiding in and apparently helping them out.</p><p>"Oh, thank God…" sighs Jehan.</p><p>Then the secret door is open and it would seem that even the soft candlelight of the living room is too much for his eyes. They sting.</p><p>"Are you both alright?" asks Fauchelevent, leading him out of the secret room and to a chair.</p><p>"Yes." says Jehan. Enjolras just nods.</p><p>A sudden shiver seems to run through the young poet: "Wait…" he whimpers, "He'll be back. The inspector can't just refuse him a warrant! It'll be too suspicious if he does."</p><p>"You're right." Fauchelevent nodded gravely, "Which is why I must act quickly."</p><p>He's out of the room before he's even done talking, with no regard for the two boys' protests and questions at all; at least, until he's picked up his hat and cape and has retrieved a walking stick from the corner of the door.</p><p>"I will speak to Javert." he explains, calmly, "I need to speak with him. When I told him my address, I expected he would pay a visit sooner or later, but it seems I will have to visit him myself if I want answers."</p><p>"Now?" Enjolras raises his brow: "At this hour? Isn't that also suspicious?"</p><p>"I don't know." he admits, "Something tells me I have to go now. You know where to hide. They can't break in without getting in a world of trouble from Javert, though, so you should be safe as long as you stay inside."</p><p>Before either of them can stop him, he’s gone.</p><p>Jehan, still trembling from anxiety, sinks into an armchair.</p><p>“Now what?” he stutters.</p><p>Enjolras doesn’t move: “Did you hear what the soldier said?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“He lied.” he shakes his head in disbelief, “He lied. He said I’m dangerous. He said Grantaire was injured at the barricade, as if they hadn’t…”</p><p>He trails off. His hand, once again, mimics a stab.</p><p>Jehan frowns: “I know. But what did you expect? They can’t just admit to the public that they injured him on purpose to get to you and then let all three of us escape under their noses.”</p><p>“I suppose.”</p><p>"I know how you feel." he says, softly, "But right now, it doesn't matter what version of the story they tell. If we're caught, we're dead."</p><p>"If <em> I' </em> m caught, <em> I' </em>m dead." corrects Enjolras, "You don't have to be. They didn't even mention you. There was hardly a search for you. And if I tell them Grantaire bled out-"</p><p>"I'm going to stop you right there. You're not…" his voice drops to a whisper: "You're not thinking of turning yourself in, are you?"</p><p>A pause.</p><p>"Jehan-"</p><p>"You can't!!" cries the poet, "You can't!! I won't let you do anything of the sort!!"</p><p>Enjolras reaches out to grab his hands and steady him: "Listen, listen to me. It makes sense. They won’t look for you, but they will be looking for me. I wasn't born to be a caretaker. The most I can do for you- the most I can be is a martyr."</p><p>"You weren't <em> born </em> to be anything!! No one is <em> born </em> into something like that. Please, Enjolras, don't say it. Don't even think it."</p><p>"But-"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Listen-"</p><p>"No!" Jehan stands up. He's quite a bit shorter than Enjolras. He's the very definition of innocuous. And yet the righteous fury that burns in his eyes burns brighter than a star: "No, <em> you </em> listen to <em> me </em> ! You're not going to be a martyr. You survived that barricade. You're here with us, whether you like it or not. You can't change that. All you can do now if you want to do something for us is just live on and stay with us. Don't give me that <em> destiny </em> talk, because I don't believe it for a second!"</p><p>“I-”</p><p>“Do you think I’m any more qualified to do this than you are? Do you really? You overestimate me." huffs Jehan. His energy seems to run short after that, and he sinks back into the chair.</p><p>Enjolras, once again, is completely lost.</p><p>Finally, he decides on a compromise.</p><p>"I won't turn myself in." he declares. Jehan's head snaps up, hopeful. "But…" he continues, raising a hand to stop him from speaking: "I will continue to hide alone. If they <em> do </em>search this house, and if they find you or Grantaire, I will not hesitate to give myself up. Do you understand that?"</p><p>Nothing Jehan tells him is able to change his mind.</p><p>Finally, he has to agree.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me: It's chapter six, I could try writing some fluff n-</p><p>Angst brain: Enjolras is having such a massive depressive episode that he barely knows he's having it.</p><p>Angst brain has spoken.</p><p>Leave me a comment because it really motivates me to know that people have Thoughts™</p><p>- Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The stars fade at the break of dawn.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fauchelevent is still not back by the time Grantaire manages to regain consciousness completely, even if not for long. </p><p>It happens when Enjolras and Jehan are sitting silently on either side of his bed, too tired to sleep and too upset to speak. Initially, they don’t react too strongly to the quiet groan that escapes their unconscious friend’s throat. </p><p>It isn’t until he speaks, though, that they rush to his side.</p><p>“Where… the hell am I?” he rattles, looking straight at Enjolras with bleary eyes still clouded by sleep. He doesn’t have time to answer. Jehan lets himself fall on the bed and squeezes Grantaire’s hand tight. Which confuses him terribly, it seems.</p><p>“What the f-”</p><p>“R, you’re awake!” he cries out, “How do you feel?”</p><p>“Like I’ve been stabbed.” Grantaire rasps out. </p><p>They flinch.</p><p>Contrary to all expectations, that simple flinch seems to frighten him terribly; he jumps back against the headboard as far as he can go, and his hand slips out of Jehan's grasp. His eyes aren't sleepy anymore. In his pupils swirls a storm of pure terror and debilitating sadness, and he looks between the two of them and frowns with a trembling lip.</p><p>He tries to speak. It doesn't work. His jaw clenches and relaxes almost at random and his chest spasms with uneasy breaths.</p><p>"R?" whispers Jehan.</p><p>"What's wrong?" Enjolras pulls his chair closer to the bed. He almost flinches again when Grantaire looks him in the eyes. </p><p>He has never seen him so terrified.</p><p>"Grantaire, what's the matter?" he repeats, instinctively putting his hand forward to hold his. Grantaire pulls it away.</p><p>He manages to open his mouth, finally, and, eyes in blue eyes, he speaks: "...<em> I'm… s… sorry </em>."</p><p>With a shuddering breath, he falls back against the pillow and stops moving.</p><p> </p><p>Theories do nothing for them. Neither does trying to wake Grantaire up again so he can explain himself. He's dead to the world.</p><p>"Maybe he had a nightmare?" is the last, tired theory Jehan puts forward, once again receiving an indifferent <em> maybe </em> from Enjolras and finally giving up on speculation altogether.</p><p>"He's too warm." mutters Enjolras. He doesn't even <em> need </em>to touch his forehead as caring little Jehan does as soon as he hears him say that. He can feel the heat radiating off of Grantaire's limp hand, which now lies a few inches away from his.</p><p>It feels strange that he refused it.</p><p>Years and years, and he's never refused any gesture of affection at all; he's a joy to hug, according to Jehan, he lets everyone squeeze his hand if they're nervous, or lean into him, or ruffle his hair. Touch has never bothered him, whether he's the one who initiated it or not. </p><p>And it wouldn't be the first time they've held hands.</p><p>Which really makes him wonder what the hell he was seeing where Enjolras sat.</p><p>“It can’t be infected, can it?” Jehan frowns.</p><p>“Check the wound.”</p><p>He does, so gently that he almost struggles to lift the bandage. His frown deepens: “It looks fine to me.”</p><p>Enjolras gives it a look himself: “That doesn’t look infected, no.”</p><p>"So what's wrong with him?"</p><p>Jehan's voice cracks a little. Enjolras sighs again, and he can't stop all the irritation, worry and exhaustion from the past few days from seeping into his tone: "I don't know."</p><p>"We need a doctor."</p><p>"I thought you might say that." he murmurs, "We can't risk it yet. We can't go out. We have to wait for M. Fauchelevent."</p><p>As though summoned, someone is at the door. They hear him struggle a bit with the lock, and their mind runs, faster than reason, to the worst of all possibilities. Any anger or annoyance Enjolras might have held against Jehan dissolves like mist when the poet's eyes, wide with terror, run to the door. Is someone forcing the lock? They don't have the key, then?</p><p>He stands up.</p><p>"I'll keep watch outside." he says, and leaves before Jehan can put together the objections that are obviously forming in his head.</p><p>It must be dawn by now, and yet in the house there's only the tiniest sliver of light, filtering in from under the blinds. It's unnerving. It makes him feel even more like a fugitive than he already does. Enjolras sticks close to the door, ready to lead whoever it is away from the guest bedroom if needed.</p><p>It’s not.</p><p>When the door finally opens, it's only Fauchelevent that stumbles in, soaked to the bone, carrying a heavy weight on his back. As Enjolras stands, frozen in confusion, it takes the old man less than five seconds to spot him.</p><p>"Enjolras!" he cries, "Can you start a fire?"</p><p>He stammers something that was meant to be a response, but he finds himself forced to follow Fauchelevent to ask for clarifications. As he turns the corner, he can better see what's on his back. </p><p>It's a man.</p><p>It's a half drowned man.</p><p>It's a half drowned man wearing a police uniform.</p><p>A very familiar man, indeed. Maybe that's why he struggles to finally tear his eyes away from Fauchelevent's frantic hands that try to remove his jacket, and finally get to starting that fire. </p><p>"This house is turning into a hospital." he hears the old man mutter with a sort of grumpy fondness over the sound of the flint and steel clicking. Finally, the decisive spark lights the flame, and the living room is bathed in a warm orange glow. It's only under the light of the hearth fire that Enjolras finally recognises Inspector Javert.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't take long for the inspector to wake up, but it takes even less for him to fall unconscious again, and without saying a single word. When he starts trembling in his sleep, Fauchelevent finally relaxes a little. Now, the poor  gentleman looks so tense that Enjolras is nearly sure that when the inspector regains consciousness completely, he's going to faint as well.</p><p>Finally, he dares to ask what's on his mind: "What happened to him?"</p><p>Fauchelevent's frown conveys a deep sadness now, and the way he hesitates to respond is frankly a little worrying. </p><p>"I found him on the bridge." he murmurs, "It was a coincidence that I passed by there. I barely had time to recognize him before he…" </p><p>He trails off, but his hand falls as if to signify…</p><p>"He jumped." Enjolras completes the sentence.</p><p>The old man nods, hiding his face in his hands. Water drips off the tips of his white hair: "Oh, God…" he grumbles, "Do you see now what I mean, when I say I don't understand him any more than you do?"</p><p>He nods, silently.</p><p>The man gives the inspector another look, before turning back to him: "Can you watch him for a moment? I need to dry myself up."</p><p>Again, he confirms without a word, and Fauchelevent leaves.</p><p>Again, he's alone.</p><p>He's never liked to be alone. Comfortable silence is one thing, but being the only conscious, living being in a room never sat right with him. Never, not, at least, since he was old enough to realize that one man can do nothing truly fundamental without another to see him. Nothing truly important. One person alone has no purpose. One person in front of a crowd might.</p><p>He's out of his depth and he knows it. </p><p>The whole <em> taking care of people </em> thing was never his forte, but he's never truly had to worry about it before, thanks to those he still refuses to think of. He can't think about them. It feels like a betrayal to smile at their memory, but he can't afford to cry at a moment like this. Thus, the only solution is not thinking about them.</p><p>Mindlessly, he watches the water slowly drying away from the inspector's greying hair.</p><p>It's easier that way.</p><p> </p><p>Fauchelevent insists on being left alone with the inspector as soon as he wakes up. Enjolras, who, in all fairness, does not care for the man, doesn't refuse.</p><p>He decides not to care about what they have to talk about. He decides not to care about either of them, in fact. It's not worth it.</p><p>He's not sure what he's supposed to care about.</p><p>He has a vague idea, of course. There's at least a couple of things in the next room that he's fairly certain he can and should afford to care about. As for all the rest? He honestly doesn't know.</p><p>When he goes back to the guest bedroom, he is made aware of the fact that Jehan has not, in fact, given up on theories.</p><p>"I just don't understand!" cries the poet, "Why was he so frightened? Why is it taking him so long to wake up? He already did it once!"</p><p>"He's lost a lot of blood." observes Enjolras, much quieter than he'd like to speak. There's something inherently disturbing about this that he hasn't quite figured out yet. </p><p>"I've been giving him as much water as I can."</p><p>"Good."</p><p>"Yes, but he's still too warm!" laments Jehan, twisting the cuff of his right sleeve: a nervous tick that he's never quite lost and that has left many of his shirts frayed at the cuffs. And one of Combeferre's- <em> stop right there </em>, says whatever part of his mind is still blocking the flood of memories that threatens to wash away whatever sanity he's managed to retain so far.</p><p>It works.</p><p>"It can't be helped." he murmurs, "He really did drink a lot, Jehan. He said he felt ill even before coming here."</p><p>"How do we help him?"</p><p>"I don't know."</p><p>Jehan goes silent for a moment.</p><p>"I hate this." he whispers.</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"I hate all of this." he hisses, but his tone remains venomous only for a moment, before dissolving into a stuttering justification: "I- I mean- not you of co- I don't mean you. Or R. I- I- uh… I just mean-"</p><p>"Jehan, it's alright. I understand."</p><p>"I just need to-"</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"I really need…"</p><p>Enjolras doesn't interrupt him, but he doesn't finish the sentence anyway. So he gives him a little push: "Yes, Jehan?"</p><p>The poet hesitates. He seems to be weighing his options. He stares at Grantaire, but steals only quick glances at Enjolras, turning away as soon as he catches his eye.</p><p>"Jehan? What is it?"</p><p>Maybe it's the active effort he's made to sound sweet for once in his life. Maybe it's just Jehan's building stress finally collapsing. Maybe it's nothing.</p><p>Whatever it is, Jehan finally looks at him, eye to misty eye, and says what's on his mind.</p><p>"<em> I need a hug </em>."</p><p>It's quiet, barely a whisper.</p><p>But quiet only goes so far when the words are so loud. And quiet, just as quiet, does Enjolras remain as he lifts his arm; just as loud does the invitation come across. Jehan doesn't hesitate more than a few moments. </p><p>He shakes with quiet sobs in his arms, and it's the loudest sound he's ever heard.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Did the narration leave Valjean and Javert alone because of plot convenience, because the author is not ready to write Javert, or because Enjolras just cannot be bothered anymore?<br/>Eh, pick your favourite. </p><p>Jehan is a strong baby but it couldn't last forever </p><p>Leave a comment, every comment is an extra hug for Jehan because he deserves it.</p><p>- Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Delirium</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Enjolras wakes up from a dreamless sleep in the early afternoon without even realising he's been sleeping. It doesn't look like anyone has come in all morning. The room is quiet, and Jehan is completely still (but </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he confirms) on his shoulder, also asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So what woke him up, he wonders?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The answer stares him in the face with glassy brown eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire is lying still in his bed, but his eyes dart all around the room, landing again and again on Enjolras and Jehan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Grantaire?" he whispers, "You're awake. Are you alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright?" Grantaire repeats, "Alright, alright. Alright, he asks me. Are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Grantaire-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Answer me, answer me. Are you alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes." he concedes, "Yes, I'm alright. I asked you first, though. Answer."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright!" cries Grantaire, "Alright! You have eight bullets in you, my friend!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras can almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> his own eyebrows rise in concern. He can certainly </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> them shooting up. "No." he says, slowly, "I don't. I don't even have </span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>bullet in me, let alone </span>
  <em>
    <span>eight</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Why do you say that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire babbles something and then goes dead silent, staring at his chest, then his arms, then his head. He doesn't seem to find what he was looking for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't… know…" he murmurs. The haze over his eyes fades just a little, and he seems relatively lucid: "I don't know why… why I thought that. Aren't you a ghost?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not a ghost."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But, if so, then why… why… are you carrying Jehan's body? What for?" he stutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras feels his heart sink: "He's alive. We're both alive."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alive!" laughs Grantaire, breathless. His eyes look more like a doll's eyes by the minute: "Alive! Why did you lie? You said he was dead, you- why lie to me? Why let me believe he was dead? I grieved him, the sweet little bugger."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Grantaire-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Here, here." he gestures towards himself, "Let me see him? Please, let me see him. Let me see you, too. You were so bloody when last I saw you two. It was terrifying. Here, come here. If you won't, I'll come to you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, don't move." Enjolras puts his hand up to stop him, "Don't move. Give me a moment."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hurry." whines Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras doesn't want to wake Jehan, but he's almost certain Grantaire will. Regardless, he shifts to hook his free arm under his knees and carry him closer to Grantaire's bedside. Almost immediately, Grantaire grabs his unmoving arm and brings it to his ear, with trembling fingers, surprisingly not waking the poor boy, who must be catching up on some severe sleep deprivation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alive…" he whispers. A wide grin grows on his face: "Ah, he scared the hell out of me. He scared me. But you're right, he's alive, I feel it. And you? You, are you still alive since last I saw you? Here, come here, let me check."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't grab his arm. Instead, with surprising strength, he sits up and presses his hand against the side of his neck. Enjolras lets him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There, see?" he murmurs, "I'm alive."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That, you are." he repeats, dimly, as if he was earnestly expecting to touch a ghost. He looks genuinely shocked. Until, that is, he looks happy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good, good. Good." he repeats, again and again, and Enjolras is suddenly aware of the burning hand on his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're burning up. Lie down. Come on. Lie down." he encourages, pushing Grantaire's shoulders down. Grantaire doesn't resist too much, sinking into the pillows like he's trying to merge with them. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his face, and he's still too warm. Sleeping is his best option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sleep." he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire sinks into the mattress a little more: "This is soft."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, it is. Don't you want to sleep? Go on, sleep."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And you'll stay there?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll stay right here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good. Hey, Enj- heh… </span>
  <em>
    <span>ange</span>
  </em>
  <span>, your name suits you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ange-</span>
  </em>
  <span>olras. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ange</span>
  </em>
  <span>." he chuckles, “It’s just like you, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you want to tell me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were about to tell me something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah…” Grantaire drags the </span>
  <em>
    <span>e</span>
  </em>
  <span> before shutting up entirely. His jaw twitches a few times as if he wanted to speak, but stopped himself before he could say it. Finally, he extends his hand and doesn’t say anything else, as his consciousness slips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The spark that runs through their fingers when they touch sounds like twelve gunshots in his ears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The day passes in a quiet haze. Grantaire fell unconscious again. Jehan has long since stopped crying by the time Fauchelevent knocks on the bedroom door, but he hasn't moved at all since he woke up next to Grantaire and immediately returned to Enjolas's shoulder when given the chance. He might be half asleep, or completely asleep. He probably hasn't slept in two days at least. Enjolras wouldn't know. He can't see his face, buried as it is in the massive shirt he borrowed from Fauchelevent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man smiles a little at the sight, but when he speaks there's no amusement in his voice: "Javert went home." he says, "And we need to leave before sunrise. He's going to give his officers a search warrant as soon as he returns to his post tomorrow morning, and that's the last bit of help he's willing to give us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras feels his grip tighten around Jehan's shoulders: "Where would we go?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"To my other house in Rue de l'Homme Armé, for the time being. Then, out in the countryside and then, I'll do my best to get you out of France."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like a betrayal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't give me that look, young man." warns Fauchelevent, "You're no good to your country if there's no name on your grave."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What of my friends, then?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are they not any good to this country? That they loved dearly?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice cracks a little and Jehan stirs. He lowers his tone down to a whisper: "I don't even know where they're buried."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent doesn't answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't tell me that none of what we did mattered. Don't tell me we didn't make a difference at all." he murmurs, keeping his eyes far away from the other people in the room. It's a plea. Nothing more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will find out for you.” promises Fauchelevent, “Where they’re buried, I mean. I didn’t mean to say that what you did doesn’t matter. I meant to say that I’m sure it would matter more if you had something to show for it. If you could go on, learn and grow and maybe try again, if the time comes. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras nods once. It's good enough for the man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We have to go."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Grantaire is feverish. Maybe delirious." Enjolras frowns: "How can we move him? He thought I was a ghost for a solid minute when he woke up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's no other option." Fauchelevent shakes his head apologetically, "The other house is not far. As soon as you're there, I will return to Rue Plumet and let the officers do their work. It'll be less suspicious if I'm there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine. How do we get there?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have a carriage prepared. A covered carriage. It should make it easier to carry him, and make it less likely you'll be spotted."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, we go </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Go where?" yawns Jehan, rising from his shoulder, "Where are we- where are you going?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We're leaving, Jehan." he replies, helping his confused friend to his feet, "They're going to search the house today. We're going to another house."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmh…" Jehan nods, sleepily.</span>
</p><p>Fauchelevent, once again, picks up Grantaire with both the ease and the gentleness of someone carrying a baby. It isn't immediately obvious how strong he is. Not until he's lifting something he shouldn't be able to lift.</p><p>
  <span>It's cold outside, but Enjolras doesn't shiver anymore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The house at n° 7 of Rue de l'Homme Armé is decidedly smaller than the one on Rue Plumet. Still, it's bigger than what most students are used to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A question rises in Enjolras's mind as soon as they arrive: "Is your daughter still with Marius?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I gave her permission to stay there after Prouvaire arrived. So did his grandfather." replies Fauchelevent with a sad smile, "She spent all of two days making bandages for him. She sends me news on him, but there's not much just yet. All I know is that he was alive yesterday."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter how much affection, or lack thereof, exists between him and Marius, Enjolras can't help but be glad at the news. He's still not sure about Marius. He did not help them out of ideals or righteous fury, but rather a passive desire to die, and that is slightly insulting, or would be, if only Jehan hadn't accused </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the exact same thing. On the other hand, it's good that he helped at all, and as much as he did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't matter. It really doesn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He searches into his heart and finds a gaping black hole where something else should be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent returns hours later and Enjolras is the only one still awake. Jehan has fallen into a fitful sleep next to Grantaire, but hasn't made any sudden movements since Grantaire unconsciously placed a hand on the back of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello." murmurs Fauchelevent with a much lighter smile than before, "The police found nothing. You should be safe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sigh that escapes Enjolras's lungs may be the most liberating he's ever breathed.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me researching alcohol withdrawal and finding out it can cause fever and hallucinations: Oh.</p><p>Me realising they wouldn't know about it in this time period especially not on a gravely injured person: OH.</p><p>Fr I am very sorry about Grantaire but in all fairness if he hadn't died in canon and had been imprisoned he would've had to deal with some serious withdrawal symptoms and the worst hangover ever.</p><p>Also Jehan is so tired and deserves all the sleep, Valjean deserves some quality time with Cosette after this hassle and Enjolras is still so in shock that he doesn't know he's in shock   :D</p><p>Leave a comment because the human interaction will make me feel like a person again</p><p>- Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. No Winners</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>The day passes without incident and, as dusk falls, Grantaire rises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, tries to. Immediately, he finds three pairs of arms forcing him back down and three different voices telling him not to strain himself, his fever has just broken, et cetera. Enjolras would not care to admit just how much of a heart attack that sudden move gave him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're awake." he says, dimly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire stares at him blankly: "That, I am."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We were worried." admits Jehan, who has not moved from his bedside since they got there. In all fairness, most of that time was spent sleeping, which is the least he deserves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grin Grantaire gives him is his signature grin, and it melts away their stress like ice in the summer: "Aw, you were? Well, come on. How long was I out?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Three days." mumbles Enjolras, more coldly than he'd like. In his defense, it has been a stressful three days and he still hasn't had any of the nightmares that torment Jehan's sleep. Something must be wrong with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Three days?" parrots Grantaire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Three days."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, that's not ideal."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> is an understatement."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You woke up a few times." explains Jehan, "But you weren't totally lucid."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mh." nods Grantaire, "Yeah, that makes sense. I think I woke up earlier today, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You did." confirms Fauchelevent, earning himself a stunned look from the other two, "You made direct eye contact with me and then fell asleep again without saying anything."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like me.” he chuckles, “Mostly, I was thinking </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey, who’s that</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still thinking that, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His name is M. Fauchelevent. He’s hiding us.” explains Enjolras, "Now, how do you feel?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire blinks. He seems to search for a word that just won't stay still and let him catch it. Finally, after an awkward moment of silence, he finds it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Heavy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Heavy?" repeats Jehan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. Heavy. Like my spine was made of lead."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Vivid description." comments Fauchelevent, but his brow furrows in obvious concern. Enjolras is inclined to agree. Grantaire tends to get creative with descriptions, but that is a massive advantage when trying to assess his health. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're probably just tired. You've lost a lot of blood." he suggests. Jehan and Fauchelevent nod in agreement. Grantaire nods too, albeit slowly and somewhat dizzily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I do feel tired." he admits, "And like there's an iron spike stuck in my head."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan winces at the vivid metaphor: "Oh my."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, I know. So, where are we, exactly?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We're in Rue de l'Homme Armé." explains Fauchelevent, "I will move you to the countryside shortly. I need to find a place to stay. I have a few options. Enjolras, do you have a moment?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It catches him off-guard. He must be rusty. There's no way something as simple as asking him if he has time could catch him by surprise anymore, except the way Fauchelevent says it is almost… well, it's strange. It seems to imply that he wants to have a conversation with him, and not necessarily about the new house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With no answer beyond a curt nod, he finds himself following the old man to the small living room next door. Fauchelevent sits down next to the cold fireplace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras makes no move to sit: "What's this about?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I just wanted to ask you how you're holding up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent gives him a piercing stare: "I know that look in your eyes, my boy, and it's nothing short of concerning. I wanted to ask if there's anything I can do for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Me?" Enjolras repeats, "Me? I'm not the one who needs help here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>need help." frowns the old man, "I don't know what you've been taught, but pain isn't a contest and, if it is, it's a contest with no winners. You don't win because you're uninjured. You don't lose because you're not crying yourself to sleep. You're here, and you're in pain, and that's all I care about. So tell me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras doesn't answer, not because he doesn't want to, but rather because the answer does not exist. If it does, it's out of his reach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> Fauchelevent, perhaps sensing his confusion, presses on: "Anything at all you may need from outside. Unless you want to see Marius. I'm afraid that's out of my power."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I understand."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cosette has promised to send news before tomorrow."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's good."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe you could all use some new clothes. Mine are suspiciously large, I'm afraid, on boys like you." sighs the man, "New bandages, too. We should change them often."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A doctor, perhaps?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent frowns: "Is there anyone you know you can trust with this?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost says yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The memory of two bullets says otherwise, and he just shakes his head instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, not anymore</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Fauchelevent knows what he thought about, he doesn't bring it up initially. He simply nods. But then, almost as if he were testing the waters, he murmurs: "You know, you can't push the memories away forever. It works, for some time. For years, maybe. But once that dam breaks, you're going to face a flood fit for the apocalypse."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a dire warning, and one that the old man seems to be very familiar with. Then again, he somehow seems familiar with everything he talks about. There’s something very odd about him. He dresses like a dignified, but penniless nobleman and yet he talks about buying a house as if it were a pastry. He looks at them, always, with infinite sadness and almost fatherly affection, and they don’t even know each other’s full names. There's just something odd in his behaviour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The strangest thing, though, is that none of his oddities make him feel less trustworthy to Enjolras. Normally, someone so inconsistent would immediately be suspicious in his eyes. Not Fauchelevent. It feels like there's something he's trying to hide, but it never feels like his secret could be something meant to harm any of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's just strange. So strange. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras finds himself wishing he’d listened in on his conversation with the inspector. Maybe it would have cleared some things up. And yet it’s not that he finds Fauchelevent untrustworthy so much as he finds </span>
  <em>
    <span>Javert</span>
  </em>
  <span> untrustworthy. But it’s too late to think of that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent doesn’t seem too satisfied with his brisk nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean it. Take some time alone, if you need to. Wait until we're out of the country, if you must. But don't wait too long."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves the house without another word from either of them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Enjolras is honestly not sure how long he stood still in the living room. Time is becoming harder and harder to keep track of. Case in point: in the past few days, he's counted at least six hours of time that he can't account for, where he doesn't remember a single thought he had or a single change in himself or his surroundings. Maybe it's not him, he thinks, maybe the permanent stillness of the house is confusing his sense of time. But Jehan and Grantaire don't seem to have the same problem. Neither of them ever spaces out or stops moving completely unless they're unconscious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's confusing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes up from his trance only when someone shouts in the road outside, so loud that the sound can be heard even from inside the house. It's daytime. Isn't it? Yes, he confirms, looking at the sliver of sunlight that comes from the crack between the blinds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't feel like daytime.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The past few days have felt like one unbearably long night. Out of curiosity, he glances at the rhythmically ticking grandfather clock in the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's almost noon. How can it be? He had sat down to think for what felt like ten seconds and woke ten hours later. Had he slept? He couldn’t have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t feel the scratches against the walls holding his sanity together. He doesn’t hear them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t because there’s no threat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The reason he doesn’t feel it is akin to the reason a deaf man wandering alone doesn’t notice the knife raised at his back, or the bullet fired in his direction. It’s simple, really, and yet he doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he would have to do is turn around and look.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me writing: I wonder if I'm insisting too much on how not okay Enjolras is  :/</p><p>Me editing: On second thought, I am probably not emphasising it enough.</p><p> </p><p>Someone get this boy some hot tea, a blanket and a good long nap.<br/>On a more personal note, I don't know who needs to hear this but any and all emotions you experience while grieving are valid and good, even if you don't feel anything. It's a difficult time, and your brain does everything by itself, even if that just means it builds a wall and keeps all the emotions out. It's okay. You're doing great.</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. When the Dam Breaks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There’s a grief that can't be spoken. It can't be spoken, they say, but they never say why. The reason is that there are many reasons. Sometimes, it's because no one really understands what has happened; because reason can't wrap itself around what has happened, neither can emotion, so illogical and so wild. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, it's because it doesn't need to be voiced: grief is shared and understood and words become meaningless in its presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, though, the grief is simply too great to be addressed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, as it should be said, sometimes it's a combination of two or more of these reasons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sounds ridiculous to say that words can't express something, simply on account of how many words there are, how many words humans invented for the express purpose of explaining what they perceive, feel and think. But words, in the end, are a construct, whereas perception, feeling and thought are natural and innate, and strictly personal. Something created by another entity will always fall short of something that formed itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras isn't necessarily short on words. He never was. He can be a true, articulate weaver of words sometimes, as he's been told. But, though his words always came from a place of passion, they sought to latch on to something more, something higher than his emotion. It seems strange, then, that though his words could soar so high, they could not fly at the level of his more human emotions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn't actually all that strange. Words are like a muscle and must be trained, and Enjolras was not trained in speaking of himself. Not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>to</span>
  </em>
  <span> himself. His thoughts are driven by so many forces, and stopped by none. To pull them down from where they soar would mean crashing and burning. To pull </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> down would mean crashing and burning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so he just sits there, still and quiet and wondering why time won't wait for him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Time doesn't wait for him and neither do people. Eventually, Jehan pops his head in to see what's taking him so long and finds him staring silently at the faded wallpaper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Enjolras?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's a tear." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right there." Enjolras points at a spot where the wallpaper has been torn, though it's only a small rip and doesn't ruin the view of the wall, "There's a tear."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's nothing. What is it, Jehan?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was just checking on you." he says shyly, "We woke up an hour ago and you weren't there, and R wouldn't shut up until he knew you were okay, so…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry. I'll be right there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright. Where's M. Fauchelevent?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Out. He went out. Don't know where." he mumbles, "Probably doing things. I don't know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands up and his legs almost buckle. How long has he been sitting there? Too long, probably. Jehan doesn't seem to notice his poor balance and, if he does, he doesn't point it out. He probably expected it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire, despite all his protestations, is barely awake. His head, though, which has been slowly falling against the pillow with every passing second, snaps up when he notices they've entered the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There he is." he comments, "What's wrong, love? Did you get lost in the basement?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There is no basement here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, I wouldn't know. I woke up here. Speaking of which, I was hoping you could tell me exactly what the hell is going on, because I have no idea."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras and Jehan exchange a look. Jehan looks very apologetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No one told you, then." murmurs Enjolras, without breaking eye contact. Jehan gives a half smile that clearly says </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry, it's not my field</span>
  </em>
  <span> and backs right out of the conversation. And the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire doesn't catch it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Told me what?" he asks, scratching the back of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras decides to tread lightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's the last thing you remember before waking up here?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I…" he stops, "I… honestly… don't know? It's all very… confused. I'm assuming the part where I got stabbed was real."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"In prison?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, that's about all I remember." he admits, quietly, "The prison, and that bastard officer."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras feels his heart sink all the way down: "That's it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Go back a little. To the barricades. What do you remember?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has never seen someone's expression change so jarringly from calm, to suspicion, to panic, to complete and utter terror. There's no tidal wave building behind Grantaire's eyes. It's more like an old dam, too thin, or too poorly built, to contain the flow of the river. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dam was already cracked, but the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>barricades</span>
  </em>
  <span> broke it apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's no time to try and repair it. It's gone. Grantaire sits up, inadvisably, a man possessed. He looks like he wants to scream. And yet, he whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>That was real</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grantaire kicks them all out of the room with the excuse of wanting to rest. That's not what he wants, but are they going to argue with him? No. They've all been there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hellish noise of the barricade is only days away and yet, in the silence and stillness of the house, it feels like a distant vision, a strange nightmare. To Grantaire, it really </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> more like a nightmare than anything else. There are good dreams and nightmares, and neither is truly good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nightmares are painful, but they fade when you wake up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good dreams are joyful, but they also fade when you wake up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Terror versus joy, relief versus disappointment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To wake from a good dream and find it to be true would be the best feeling in the world, but to wake from a nightmare and find it to be true may well be the worst. And, if the barricade was no more than a terrible nightmare to Grantaire, then the worst feeling in the world was what awaited him when he woke up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other three occupants of the house sit quietly in a circle in the living room, with a neatly folded (and tragically ignored) pile of clothes in the middle. Fauchelevent's face loses all colour when they explain why they look like the world's smallest funeral procession.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He just found out?” he repeats, slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras gives no answer beyond a single nod. Jehan doesn't even move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think he should be left alone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wants to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t leave an injured person alone.” scolds Fauchelevent, but there’s no bite to it. No one wants to leave Grantaire alone, but no one wants to go see him, either; someone has to move eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> is, unsurprisingly, Jehan, who seems to gather his courage in the blink of an eye: his back straightens, he runs a hand through his unruly red hair, and he's out. Fauchelevent gives him a very eloquent look and follows him. No voices come from the guest bedroom. Maybe they're talking quietly, or maybe they're not talking at all. It doesn't matter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras sits in silence, surrounded by silence, and wonders if the silence is purgatory or Hell.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh yeah, turns out when you have three days of hallucinations and nightmares, you may confuse reality with fantasy. <br/>Oops  :D</p><p>So yeah uh... yay? <br/>These poor boys need some hot cocoa right now.</p><p>- Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Hide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He enters the room as Fauchelevent is leaving, only to find Grantaire sitting in a chair. As opposed to lying down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you up?” he asks, more coldly than he intended. Jehan gives him a pointed warning glare that screams </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't start an argument now </span>
  </em>
  <span>loud and clear. He almost apologises, too, until Grantaire cuts him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am not </span>
  <em>
    <span>up</span>
  </em>
  <span>, this thing hurts more when I lie down so I wanted to change position and M. Fauchelevent helped me. Is that all?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is once again cut off before he can answer: "Also," adds Grantaire, "I asked them to catch me up on what happened but it seems they only know things up to a certain point. Do you mind…?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question goes unspoken. Enjolras flinches anyway. He's not sure why such a simple and arguably reasonable request feels like a bucket of cold water to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just wants to know what happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has the </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know what happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras is out of the room before he knows he's moved. When the door shuts behind him, his brain finally catches up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His first instinct is to run back in and apologise. His second instinct is to run as far away as he can go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They battle for dominance in his mind and keep him frozen just outside the door. It's not good. It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>not good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Since when is he so indecisive?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He listens for voices inside the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him a few seconds, but Grantaire is the first to react: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Alright then.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>R, I'm so</span>
  </em>
  <span>rry. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He's just…</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p><span>"</span><em><span>It's fine.</span></em> <em><span>I wasn't expecting him to jump from joy</span></em><span>."</span></p><p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Although I have to admit, I wasn't expecting him to run away either</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>I should check on him</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Go ahead</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barely has enough time to step away from the door before it opens. Jehan looks tired. He shuts the door behind him and just looks at him. Kind of blankly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It can't be more than thirty seconds before he breaks the silence, but it feels like thirty years: "Are you alright, Enjolras?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll explain." is all he can say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan sits down in the living room: "You don't have to do that right now, you know. If you're not ready or-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, it's fine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know he would understand, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's fine. It's fine. Just give me…" he rubs the sleep out of his eyes with his palms, "...a few minutes to get my speech together."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan looks skeptical, but doesn't comment on it. Or anything at all. He doesn't say anything beyond a soft: "Take your time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't do that, unfortunately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a knock at the door. Fauchelevent peeks out through a window and seems to lose all colour in his face. He turns to them with wide eyes: "It's the police."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Enjolras has never felt the blood drain from his face so fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You- you're joking." he stutters, "How?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's alright. I'll hide you. Here-" Fauchelevent leads him to the window, "There's an indent in the wall outside, under the window. No one will see you there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What about-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll take care of it. Go!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without leaving him time to answer, Fauchelevent runs back into the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras carefully lowers himself down from the windowsill. There </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>, in fact, a space big enough for one person to fit. It seems to be an almost trapezoidal space, more narrow at the shoulders and wider towards the bottom, with a metal bar at the level of his shoulders. It's an odd shape to be sure, and the fact that both of Fauchelevent's houses have such convenient hiding compartments raises some questions, but there's no time to worry about that. Either way, the nook being just below the level of the upper floors, there is a tiny fissure in the wall, sort of like a peephole, to see into the room. Once again, the presence of such a peephole raises questions. Once again, those questions will have to wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees Jehan squeeze into another hidden compartment inside an armchair. It looks secure enough. It looks well hidden enough. It's still unsettling to see him from outside the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent vanishes into the guest bedroom, presumably to help Grantaire squeeze into whatever nook or cranny he's hidden in there. He emerges only seconds later, alone, and runs down the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again, the conversation he has with the officers is loud enough for them to hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Good afternoon, officers.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Likewise, sir.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer sounds familiar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Runaways, monsieur. From the prison.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His blood starts to run cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Who?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Two, maybe three men from the riots on the 6th of June. Particularly, their leader. He's been described as a young man with long blond hair, last seen wearing a red vest."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That voice sounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>familiar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>No, I haven't seen anyone like that</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Not to worry</span>
  </em>
  <span>." says the officer, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>I have.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Enjolras can almost hear his heart slow to a stop only to start racing immediately afterwards. Whether it's fear, anger, or something else, though, he has no idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>You have?</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Fauchelevent sounds just a little uneasy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>." confirms the officer, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>So I'm sure if I were to see them somewhere, any place; your house, for instance, I'd be able to recognise them."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not hard to see the meaning behind his words.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know they're here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounds confident. That's not good. It means he thinks he has the situation under control; for all they know, he might. Maybe he's just being cocky, but maybe he has a plan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent doesn't seem too impressed: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>What are you insinuating, officer? Are you suggesting I'm harbouring fugitives?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Not at all, sir. I'm merely suggesting they might have found a place to hide.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>In here? I would have seen them!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s honestly unclear whether Fauchelevent is playing up the </span>
  <em>
    <span>offended gentleman</span>
  </em>
  <span> act or genuinely starting to panic. His voice grows louder. The officer remains calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>They have proven to be stealthy. Which is why we would like to search the house.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Do you have a warrant</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" asks Fauchelevent, just like last time. But it's not the same this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer says: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Enjolras can hear Jehan stifle a gasp, which does not bode well for him. But, if he can hear well from his hiding place…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jehan?" he whispers, "Jehan, can you hear me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears a quiet, mumbled response come from the chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good. Because I can hear you too." he continues, "They won’t find us, okay? None of us. But we have to be quiet. Alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan is silent for long enough to make him worry that he hasn't heard him. Finally, though, he murmurs: "Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's good enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Fauchelevent is trying to stall the search by any means possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Show me your warrant.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A rustle of paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Who signed it?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>The new inspector, Monsieur.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" sighs the officer, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>You may have heard of inspector Javert's retirement. He has been replaced with M. Bouchard.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>I don't know him.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" scoffs Fauchelevent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>You're looking at him.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me the last few chapters: oh okay we're starting the recovery :)))  they're safe now :))) they can focus on healing  :)))</p><p>Me this chapter: P S Y C H</p><p>Guess who's back? Me. Guess who's also back? M. Bouchard, apparently, who has now been named (by which I mean literally now because I don't feel like outpunning Victor freaking Hugo and therefore just kinda picked a random surname this time. I apologise.)</p><p>Leave a comment and by all means feel free to yell at me. I understand.</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Hold Your Breath and Close Your Eyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ah, the bastard has a name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, it's Enjolras's turn to stifle whatever noise was climbing up his throat. Whatever it was. He doesn't know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent still tries to stall. It doesn't work. Soon enough, there are footsteps coming up the stairs: three people, at least. Maybe four. Hopefully the fourth is just Fauchelevent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras leans in to watch through the crack in the wall. Sure enough, Fauchelevent is the first to enter the room, never sparing more than a brief glance at the chair Jehan is hiding under. He is soon followed by two policemen and the bastard, Bouchard. It’s him, alright. His voice was alarming, his claim that he knew them was worse, but seeing his face erases any doubt he might have had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard takes a sweeping gaze around the room. He directs his men to the adjacent rooms without a word, before calmly pacing around, inspecting the walls and curtains. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is being slow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Torturously slow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances at Fauchelevent often enough to make the old man visibly nervous. There’s a silent scream in his eyes: </span>
  <em>
    <span>he knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it repeats, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he knows, he knows, he knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard runs his hand along the wall, knocking twice every few inches. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to find anything. The nook in the wall where Enjolras is hiding is below the room and therefore doesn’t give him away. Bouchard also doesn’t seem too concerned about the outer wall in general. He doesn't believe anyone could be there, which is good news for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next, he inspects the closet, the fireplace, and every place big enough for a person to hide. He demands that Fauchelevent open the two large chests in the room. Fauchelevent complies without hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard smiles less and less, which is a joy to see, in all honesty. He seems much less confident than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks out the window, left and right, and up and down, until Enjolras is close enough to hear his breath, until he has to hold his </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> breath to avoid being spotted, but he doesn't see Enjolras under the windowsill.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Go away</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he prays, </span>
  <em>
    <span>go away, go away, move along, leave this house and never come back</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought is hardly finished when Bouchard finally steps away from the window, allowing Enjolras to breathe in again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's good to breathe. It's not, he knows that now, something to take for granted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, another guard returns from the kitchen: "Nothing in this area, sir." he declares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The one inspecting the bedroom has yet to return. But he hasn't said anything either, which is good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard seems disappointed. He turns to Fauchelevent: "You're sure you haven't seen them, Monsieur?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Positive, sir. What pointed you to this house?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone? Does someone know? Who? A passer-by? Unlikely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's no time to think about that now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mh." nods the officer, pacing around once more, "Buvette, would you check that window again?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, sir."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other guard, Buvette, apparently, makes his way to the window. He freezes in his tracks not a yard away from Jehan's hiding place and sneezes loudly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bless you." murmurs Fauchelevent. Bouchard doesn't react at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Buvette smiles politely. Still dizzy from the sneeze, though, he miscalculates and bangs his knee on the back of the chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The quiet curse he lets out isn't enough to cover the stifled gasp from inside.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If Enjolras could hear his own heartbeat, he's sure he would hear dead silence at that moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard's ears perk up like the ears of a bloodhound. His eyes, eagle-like in so many ways, zoom in on the chair before Buvette can even stand straight again. Fauchelevent's face loses all colour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait a moment." whispers Bouchard, "Wait just a moment."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes his way to the chair without hurry. Slowly enough that he can listen for breath in between his steps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras remembers what he said and fully intends to stand by it. His right arm shoots up to grab the windowsill, but freezes in its tracks when the officer relaxes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was probably nothing." he laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The arm falls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer keeps laughing, long enough for Buvette and, reluctantly, Fauchelevent, to join in. It really is a bizarre scene to witness. Almost like a joke: two officers and an old man- two. Two officers. The third still hasn't returned. Bouchard doesn't seem to care, though, shaking his head with laughter and leaning against the chair, which drains any blood that might have graciously clung to the veins in Fauchelevent's face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gradually, the laughter tapers off and Bouchard straightens out again. He smiles at Fauchelevent, almost sweetly: "Forgive the inconvenience, Monsieur. We had a report of someone sneaking in and out of this house and we have to be careful. One of these men was gravely injured at the barricade, you see, so there's only so many places he can be."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I understand." nods the old man, "You've done your duty, nothing more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I disagree, Monsieur."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I haven't done my duty just yet." smiles Bouchard, a different smile, that looks more like a tiger spotting his injured prey, "Not until I've found them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent chuckles, awkwardly: "This city certainly has the most zealous inspectors I've ever seen." he comments, twisting his hands behind his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mhh." nods Bouchard, "I suppose you've met Javert. Then again, so many have. It's a shame he retired, really."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I agree." Fauchelevent smiles for all the wrong reasons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know what came over him." sighs the new inspector, "Guess that barricade job was too much for him. Truly a shame, if you ask me. And suspicious."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Suspicious?" repeats Fauchelevent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes." he says, dragging the </span>
  <em>
    <span>s</span>
  </em>
  <span>, "Very suspicious. It's almost like he pitied those boys. Almost like he sympathised with them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You think so?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, yes. Unfortunately, M. Chabouillet doesn't agree with me, so we're not allowed to interrogate him." he sighs, "Shame."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Indeed." Fauchelevent is practically hissing through his teeth at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard finally turns around: "Well, unless Chalons finds something there, I believe we're finished here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent breathes in and his cheeks seem to regain their natural colour. This is definitely not his first run-in with the police, but, judging by his reaction, it may well be the most tense. He looks relieved to be done with it, and who could blame him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras realises he's been holding his breath only when his lungs start to burn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard smiles again, amiably. Something shifts. Something in that smile changes in a matter of seconds, and the predatory spark in his eyes burns brighter with each passing moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Just one last question, Monsieur." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course." Fauchelevent nods stiffly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard just smiles. Before Fauchelevent can say anything, he turns back to the chair with his foot raised, kicking it over. Jehan tumbles out with a yelp; the heavy lid of the hidden compartment flies up and crashes back down on his shoulder, causing him to gasp in pain and scramble forth a few feet. That's as far as he goes before Bouchard pulls him up by the collar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras's fingers hurt from clutching the metal bar. His lungs burn more now, like they're on fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard smiles at a pale M. Fauchelevent again, but there's no kindness in it this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you know this boy?" he asks.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>What an incredibly stressful chapter to write but tbh I couldn't wait to post it  :,)<br/>Poor Jehan just cannot catch a break, I've pinpointed him as my darling and the rule of thumb here is "torment your darlings".</p><p>Bouchard could have been made sympathetic, but we can't have another Javert, we need some Pure Evil sometimes.</p><p>- Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Shockwave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first and the only thing on his mind is that Jehan looks terrified. He has the underside of his collar in a white-knuckled grip; he doesn’t try to fight the officer, he just tries to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>away</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard, unphased, tugs him closer and puts him in a headlock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent’s hand twitches forward, but Bouchard doesn’t give him time to do anything: “Answer the question.” he ordered, “Do you know this boy? You, Buvette, go find Chalons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Buvette leaves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras feels his hand shake against the bar. In fact, all of him is shaking: all his muscles are tense, all of them are on the attack, and, with every tug on Jehan’s collar, the phantom feeling of wood and metal in his hands pulses stronger, and the phantom smell of gunpowder and blood fills his lungs. Fighting his own frozen body, he lifts his arms to climb into the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard doesn’t notice his hands on the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t ask again, sir.” he warns, almost monotonously, “Do you know him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent, frozen, doesn’t have time to answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan speaks up: “He doesn’t. I- I lied to him. I said I needed a place to stay, I- he didn’t know I’d escaped from the prison.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of which, you can tell me how you managed that later.” the officer casually taps the back of Jehan's neck like he doesn't have an arm closed tight around his throat, “Or not. I doubt it’ll change your sentence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns back to Fauchelevent: "Well, sir, I think we're done here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His grip tightens. It looks painful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy, much shorter and smaller than him, has no chance of escape. He can't even move his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan squirms uncomfortably: "Ow-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard squeezes tighter, ignoring both his pained gasp for air and Fauchelevent’s protests: "Of course, this would go much easier if we could find the leader like we were supposed to, but then again, when does it ever go that well, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent finally speaks up: "Stop that! You're hurting him!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes." agrees Enjolras, "Would you let go of his neck?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He must look like a vision, propped up on the windowsill and encircled by sunlight. There are different emotions in the six eyes fixed on him: fear, concern, surprise, but the only one they all share is that familiar reverence and wonder he's seen in the eyes of his followers. With their eyes fixed on him, no one seems to notice the clatter coming from the next room. The way they look at him, he must look almost frightening, and he hopes Bouchard fears his rage as he should.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The leader is no longer in red, but he is a leader nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he should be, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard's smile grows to a degree no smile should: "There you are. Where's your friend?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Dead." he replies, without a moment's hesitation, a rehearsed response, "That is what happens when people are stabbed by a madman."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You have none but yourself to blame."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That much is true, but he has no time for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let go of him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t. He doesn’t even loosen his grip. Of course, Bouchard is greatly outnumbered against him and the unexpectedly strong Fauchelevent, and his men still haven’t returned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that equation does not include Jehan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are too many ways to hurt someone who can’t defend themselves. Grantaire barely got away last time. He could’ve been safe if he just hadn’t stepped in. There are too many ways attacking Bouchard could go wrong. It would worsen their sentences, at the very least, and Enjolras is already good as dead. The guards won’t stop looking for him, not anytime soon, and they can’t run forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breathes in, as quietly as he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan meets his eyes. There’s terror there, but it’s not for himself anymore. He shakes his head, barely, as much as he’s able to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras ignores it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a fast runner.” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard tilts his head slightly in confusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re outnumbered, inspector.” he continues, “Even if you weren’t, I’m still here. I’m in perfect health. This window isn’t tall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you going with this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I’m saying is, I could escape, and you might never see me again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That possibility finally seems to unnerve the bastard, but that has the unfortunate side effect of tightening his grip on Jehan, who can hardly gasp at this point. His eyes are starting to glaze over. Enjolras hopes the panic doesn't show on his face. He hopes Bouchard can't tell he's bluffing about running away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So?" growls the man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So let him go." he says, hoping against all hope that none of the violent emotions tearing his stomach apart will show on his face, "And I'll come with you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's like a shockwave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words spread through the room quickly. Jehan is closest to him. He resumes his struggles and gasps for air and he shakes his head as much as the arm around his neck will allow. At least it seems he managed to breathe in for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard, just behind him, reacts just a split second later. He has both arms around Jehan now, one closed in a painful grip around his neck, the other pinning his arms to his chest. He squeezes tighter with both, and Jehan has to stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent, further away, is the last to move. He mouths a quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't</span>
  </em>
  <span> to Enjolras, looking paler and older than ever before, like the proposition has suddenly aged him by ten years. He glances at Bouchard, whose attention is now entirely on Enjolras. He could take him, of course. But that's not what Enjolras wants, either. That would mean one more person in serious trouble, and he needs Fauchelevent to get his friends out of the country.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, just barely, and the old man freezes in his tracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard spares him little more than a glance: "And who's to say you won't run the moment I let him go?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You have my word."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's not enough."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps away from the window, essentially cornering himself, away from any possible escape route: "See, I can't run now if your arms are free."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he would. He trusts Fauchelevent, but not with Jehan's life. Not with Grantaire's. Not now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard still doesn't let go, ignoring the way Jehan's chest seizes painfully every time he tries to breathe: "And what guarantee do you have that I won't arrest him as well?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The anxiety clawing at him roars and rips and tears and devours, even faster than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clock is ticking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's no time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why do you care?" he snaps, "He was barely involved in this revolt!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's not the one you want, is he?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"So why waste time with him?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There's no time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He could die.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He's not breathing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm asking you for an honest deal, man to man, I give my word and you give yours, I die and you're the one who captured me, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>for the love of God would you just let him breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>???"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't remember the last time he shouted so loud.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tis here!! <br/>Poor Jehan. Poor Enjolras. Poor everyone except Bouchard (fuck that guy). <br/>Can you hear it? That's the sound of Enjolras's patience breaking apart. </p><p>See you all next chapter, ily even though I make you suffer  &lt;3</p><p>- Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Run</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He shouldn't have shouted. Shouting means desperation, desperation means vulnerability, vulnerability means helplessness, and he can't afford to be helpless right now. Ever, but especially now. He's so close to jumping at Bouchard's neck and seeing how he likes gasping for air that can't reach his lungs. He's so close to tearing him away from Jehan by the hair, shoving him out the same window he just came in from.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's so close to stealing that damn knife that still glistens on his belt and showing him how it feels to be stabbed in the side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does none of those things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he just stands there, shell-shocked by his own voice and hoping against all hope that the man has a shred of human decency in his cold dead heart and takes the deal while he can.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bouchard takes his time. He always does. He makes a big show of thinking and reflecting and considering his proposal, while Jehan slowly slumps in his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It must hurt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras's legs are already tense with that homicidal rage he's been holding back when Bouchard finally loosens his grip on Jehan's neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fine." he shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jehan, red-faced, gasps loudly and immediately coughs out any air he may have gathered. He's still pinned to Bouchard's chest, though, which, if the unnaturally sudden pallor of his face is any indication, may be the only reason he's still standing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras wants nothing more than to help him, but he can't reach him yet. Maybe ever. So he does the only thing he can do and keeps the conversation going.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You said you'd let him go." he points out, between his teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I said I'd let him </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>." he corrects.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes all of Enjolras's willpower to stop himself from lunging at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just take the deal." he murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will." Bouchard assures him, "I just want to make sure you won't change your mind all of a sudden."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I wouldn't."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Your word, my word." he dismisses, "Hands up."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm unarmed."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Show me, then. Hands up."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does as he's told. Bouchard grins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Enjolras can insist any more on Jehan's release, Bouchard unceremoniously opens his arms, letting his weak, air-starved body drag him to the ground. Thankfully, he doesn't hit his head on anything, nor are there any worrying sounds beyond the unfortunately familiar </span>
  <em>
    <span>thud</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a falling body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It does nothing to soothe the rage that boils under his skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't have time to protest, though, because Bouchard takes advantage of the distraction to grab his arm, still raised above his head, and wrench it behind his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Violently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bites his tongue for no reason other than not giving the bastard the satisfaction of showing pain. And the fact that his arm is probably fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine. Jehan will be fine as soon as he gets some air. No one even knows Grantaire is alive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wills his heart to stop pounding in his chest, stop beating entirely, for all he cares, just as soon as he’s out of there. Just as soon as everyone else is out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It will be fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hello there."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The grip loosens. Bouchard turns around, just in time to receive a powerful punch in the temple. He falls to the ground and doesn’t move again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras meets Grantaire’s eyes, and the million questions behind them. Most of all </span>
  <em>
    <span>what are you doing</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh…” Grantaire breathes, swaying on his feet a little, “Oh, that felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>great</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next instant, the blood seems to drain from his face and his hand travels unconsciously to his side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s less great.” he admits. He stumbles back a few feet and nearly crashes into a chair, pale as death. Fauchelevent helps him sit down and he seems to sink into the pillows. He always seems to sink, like there’s something constantly pulling him down. Like there’s a weight in his bones. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks so pale.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hard to realize (his arm still hurts), but Bouchard is down. He’s unconscious. Despite the way his skin pulses uncomfortably where he grabbed his arm, he's not there anymore. They're all free. Which means-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We have to run." whispers Enjolras, with no help at all from his uncooperative, frozen lips. It's little more than a breath. It does get Grantaire to nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” he agrees, between his teeth, “I locked the other two in the closet but I don’t think they’ll stay asleep for long.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We should lock the door behind us.” murmurs Fauchelevent, “To buy us time. Here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He slips the keys into Grantaire’s shaking hand, pats him gently on the back, and runs out the door. Fast. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room falls silent in his wake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bouchard still lies twisted on the floor, with a slow trickle of blood coming from his split lip. He frowns even in his sleep, same as his predecessor. Equally relentless, far less neutral. There’s an unspoken understanding between the three survivors: </span>
  <em>
    <span>he can’t find us</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire is cradling his abdomen, visibly trying to hold back a grunt of pain. At least, though, his spotless shirt suggests that the wound didn’t reopen, which will save them a lot of time and risk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As for Jehan, he looks to be unconscious. Enjolras doesn’t notice the stumble in his own step when he approaches his sleeping friend, nor the scrape on his knee when he kneels just a little too quickly. He does notice how Jehan’s throat looks a bit swollen, and how his arm folds like a dead snake beside him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How is he?” asks Grantaire between his teeth. His effort to look closer only seems to reward him with yet another sting of pain, and Enjolras holds up his hand: </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leans down to check Jehan’s breath. It’s almost unnecessary; before his ear is anywhere near Jehan’s face, his hair shifts with an uneasy breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s breathing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire’s sigh of relief sounds more like a whimper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good.” he comments, and says nothing else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras turns back to Jehan. His hair, which looks more blond than red in the current light, falls loosely around his head, like a halo. In his struggles, he seems to have lost the ribbon that held it together. It’s almost disturbing, for some reason. His braid was almost never undone for as long as they’ve known each other. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And his hands, calloused only on two fingers, the hands of a writer, lie still beside him. Unusually still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he needs a little help.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hoping against hope itself that he won’t find anything wrong, he lays his hand on Jehan’s chest and pushes down, gently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It works.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jehan breathes in, a hoarse gasp, followed by the quietest coughing fit he’s ever heard. He’s not even getting enough air to cough. Something ugly bubbles up in Enjolras’s chest. He shoves it back down in favour of the much gentler feeling of concern that follows it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Jehan?" he calls, "Jehan, can you hear me?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The poet's head lolls against Enjolras's knee. He blinks a few times, but doesn't answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Jehan?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you alright?" Grantaire chimes in from his chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mh." hums Jehan, curling up a little, "What…?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice is somehow both hoarser and sweeter than usual. There is something very sweet in the way he paws blindly at Enjolras's shoulder, as if trying to find a clue on his surroundings. There's something tender in the way he blinks sluggishly, like a child waking from his nap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That's the issue. He looks like a child, but the mark on his neck is something a child should never come in contact with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, his hand comes to a stop on Enjolras's cheek. He seems to regain some form of clarity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Enjolras?" he murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm here. Are you alright?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can you breathe?" asks Grantaire, looking like he's about a second away from straining his wound </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mhyes." nods Jehan, almost thoughtfully, "I can breathe. Why?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The urgency of their situation hits Enjolras with the force of a bullet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's nothing. I'll explain later. Can you stand?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I think so?" he tries. His attempts to sit up fail. Enjolras slings his arm over his shoulder and helps him up before he can hurt himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His step is uncertain, like a newborn deer's, but he can, in fact, stand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That leaves Grantaire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both know it. Their eyes meet and there's that awkward moment of </span>
  <em>
    <span>what do we do now</span>
  </em>
  <span> as the tense atmosphere that has flooded the room for the past hour drains away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thankfully, the decision is taken out of their hands. Fauchelevent runs back in and, without a word, unlocks the door to the backyard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Go." he orders, "Into the carriage. Now. I'll help him out."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>True to his word, he goes to help Grantaire and Enjolras disappears with Jehan down the stairs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yet another safehouse to find.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There's almost no light in the carriage. The curtains are drawn tight and Fauchelevent has warned them that they should all get as far from the windows as possible should the carriage stop. He sits next to Grantaire, steadying him with one hand and occasionally moving the curtain just enough to look out with the other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In front of them, Enjolras sits with a dizzy Jehan on his shoulder. He seems to really like his shoulder for some reason. Somehow, that’s the place he alway goes to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His unsafe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe </span>
  </em>
  <span>place.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>#Jehan deserves cuddles 1833<br/>Okay so uh... this came from me remembering R is canonically a boxer and therefore would know how to throw a knockout punch. Good boy  :,)<br/>Enjolras NEEDS SOME SELF LOVE but dw we have three people here specifically for that.<br/>So.........we on the run again<br/>hooray  :D</p>
<p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Out the Gate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I got us found.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a hoarse little whisper, but they all hear it. And, almost simultaneously, respond to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan looks almost startled by their immediate response: "But-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No." repeats Grantaire, "Just… no. Don't."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wh-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't go there." he mumbles, "Or you'll never come back."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be a cryptic warning if they didn’t know exactly what he means. It’s just as sad to hear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan seems to heed the warning, at least in part, and goes silent again. As does everyone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire doesn’t like it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t stop on my account.” he murmurs, only half joking. No one laughs and no one talks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’ve been riding for less than ten minutes when Fauchelevent goes pale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re going to stop us at the gates.” he says, seemingly just at that moment remembering that very important information.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras gives him a look: “You do have your documents with you, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” he confirms, “But you three might be very recognizable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m more concerned by the fact that the inspector said someone ratted us out.” says Grantaire, “What if it was the driver? Then no matter what we do, they’ll find us at the gates.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bump of the carriage comes at the exact same moment as Jehan’s little gasp of realization: “Should we hide?” he contemplates, glancing around the carriage in search of a possible hiding spot. He must be so good at that by now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent doesn’t have time to answer him. The carriage comes to a halt, as, for a moment, does the beating of their hearts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are voices up ahead, a shuffling in the driver’s seat, and then the carriage moves again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire makes the loudest sigh of relief any of them have ever heard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t.” warns Enjolras, “We still don’t know what that was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No." he agrees, "But it was probably not a guard."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He has a point." says Jehan, quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We can't be sure. Quiet, all of you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent has so obviously been there before. It manages, somehow, to shut them up. It does not, however, make Grantaire's arm stop twitching. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The city gates are up ahead, as Fauchelevent quietly informs them after peeking out the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I should've driven this damn thing myself." he mumbles, almost angrily, staring at the wall beyond which the driver sits. Every bump and turn feels like a new needle being pushed through their fragile hearts. Every voice from outside sounds like a death knell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras doesn't realize how tight his arm is around Jehan's shoulders until the poor boy squirms uncomfortably. He retrieves his arm like it's been burnt. Jehan has had enough tight arms around him for one day. Still, for some reason, he doesn't move from his shoulder. Enjolras nudges him away a bit and, reluctantly, the boy leans against the window instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire gives them both one of those looks he has, with those transparent eyes of his: this one says </span>
  <em>
    <span>are you alright</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras nods and he seems to relax a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't last. The gates of the city are so close Enjolras can almost see them through the thick red curtains. The light they bathe the carriage in is scarier than he could have anticipated. It feels like a prison, more alive than the stone he’s familiar with, like being swallowed whole by some creature. The principle is the same, really. They can’t leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds himself both missing and dreading his friends’ touch. His side feels cold now that Jehan isn’t leaning on it anymore, but his entire body goes cold as soon as he catches sight of the bruise on his neck. His hand still tingles with Grantaire’s warmth, but then goes numb with the memory of his thready pulse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if it's normal to feel so restless and yet so numb at the same time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage doesn't wait for his sluggish thoughts to form. It swerves and bumps and heads straight for the gates, inevitably. Fauchelevent's thumb strokes Grantaire's arm as though sensing his clear unease. He's sitting straight, at least, though he still seems to be in pain. His shirt is still perfectly white. He looks fine, except he doesn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras's slow thoughts grind to a halt when Jehan's hand closes tight around his upper arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not a bruising grip by any means, but it's not a relaxed grip. His fingers are trembling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's alright." murmurs Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grip relaxes, only slightly. It's good enough for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We're almost there." says Fauchelevent, softly, "Don't worry. It should be fine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Should</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Grantaire repeats, but two glares immediately shut him up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage comes to a stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be a funny sight for sure, if someone were to capture their expressions at this exact moment. Well, to someone else, anyway. To Enjolras, it would be a stab in the heart to see any more of those terrified faces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's just so incredibly tired of fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are voices up ahead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage moves again, a little faster than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent frowns, peeking out the window. His expression shifts to one more akin to relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We're out of Paris." he declares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of Paris. It's been so long, yet not long enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire slumps against the back of the carriage: "Oh thank God."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was afraid they'd check in here." murmurs Jehan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, they didn't." says Grantaire, "For </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>reason. I guess the driver wasn't all that suspicious after all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one laughs and several minutes pass in slow, uncomfortable silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage speeds up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan's hand, still on his wrist, trembles: "Is it me or… or are we going faster now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's either both of us, or all of us." mumbles Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras frowns just a little: "Where are we headed n-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage comes to a screeching halt without warning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The back of Enjolras's head crashes against the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent's arm thankfully shoots out to catch Grantaire before he can be flung from his seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan makes a small squeal of surprise, but is otherwise uninjured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all of them are bloody terrified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't get any better when they hear someone hopping off of the driver's seat. Light footsteps treading on the grass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras puts his arm out, almost unconsciously, pulling Jehan behind him. Jehan, on his part, must be out of his mind with fear, because he doesn't even try to protest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He meets Grantaire’s eyes. They're transparent as always, and there's simply too many things in there to sort out. The most important, though, is the unspoken understanding between them that making a run for it is always an option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door doesn't open. Not immediately. Instead, there's a knock on it. Polite. Unobtrusive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras looks straight at Fauchelevent, the closest to the door. The old man gulps. Enjolras nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door is opened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent's eyes go wide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before them stands the unfamiliar figure of a young man dressed in black.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"May I?" he asks, and Fauchelevent shuts the door in his face.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Shorter chapter today, but it was a necessary one  :,)<br/>Oh dear!! It would seem they've been found by Someone Who Some Of You Have Probably Already Guessed!! Whatever shall we do now?<br/>Okay, so I am considering whether or not to split next chapter in two. It comes up to over 3000 words but there's no real scene change. I'll let y'all know.</p><p>Leave a comment for a poor writer</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. A Very Long Ride</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is a long one. Have fun, darlings  :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Enjolras flinches as the door shuts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jesus." comments Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan seems more concerned: "Are you alright, Monsieur Fauchelevent? Do you know him?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course he knows me." says the young man's voice from outside, "We've been acquainted."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent doesn’t answer. He keeps a white-knuckled grip on the handle of the door, lost in some dark crevice of his mind. He looks far more terrifying than they’ve ever seen him before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan shifts nervously: "Monsieur?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent turns his eyes on them and whatever words had been forming on their tongues die before they can ever see the light of day. His eyes look like a doll's glass eyes. There's no more light in them, only the darkness of whatever memory he's fighting through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frozen still by the power of those eyes, the two of them fail to notice Grantaire's hand moving towards the door handle on his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent doesn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!" he cries, but it's too late; the door clicks and swings open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like a wild beast, Fauchelevent lunges to close it, scrambling over the seat and over Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never reaches the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blind to his surroundings, he presses his knee into Grantaire’s injured side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's his cry of pain that brings him back. It's Jehan's cry of concern, and Enjolras's hand, which, lightning-fast, shoots out to pull the attacking force away from his friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent retreats so fast that he nearly topples over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, God!” he stutters, “Oh, oh God. Are you alright? I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He repeats it, over and over, long after Grantaire straightens out again. Long after the young man has made his way over to the open door and opened it all the way, ensuring that Fauchelevent can’t shut him out.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s handsome. Dressed in a tattered version of the latest fashion. Almost pretty, almost graceful, almost charming, but with some malicious spark in his eyes that makes a shiver run up Enjolras’s spine. He does not like the young man, he decides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have awful manners, good sir.” comments the boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” murmurs Jehan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The young man tips his hat to him: “Charmed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That your name, love?” Grantaire rasps out. The young man turns to look at him for the first time. Something like a smile blooms on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grantaire, it’s been too long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not long enough, Montparnasse, you little devil.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> him?” hisses Fauchelevent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As do you, it seems.” says Enjolras, “Where from, I wonder?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably the Patron-Minette.” Grantaire suggests, tiredly: “It’s usually them. I’d heard you got arrested.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As did I.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Touché.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conversation is odd, to be sure. Grantaire seems unaffected by the presence of a known murderer and said murderer seems familiar enough with him that they can comfortably exchange jabs and jokes. It’s strange. Even knowing how familiar Grantaire is with every nook and cranny of Paris, even knowing that he is probably familiar with some bad company, it’s strange.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never got arrested.” clarifies Montparnasse, “I ran, same as you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, except I actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> get arrested.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not on my level yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nor do I intend to get on it.” deadpans Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse tuts disapprovingly: “You sound a lot different when you’re sober.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras decides he’s heard enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?” he asks, plain, simple, and cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse frowns: “I’m a runaway, same as you. It would be impolite to ride with you without your knowledge. Besides, the inside of the carriage is admittedly much more comfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to ride with us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not.” says Fauchelevent, almost too quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It does not please the young man, clearly: “It’s hardly a day’s ride to where I need to go. I don't believe I'm being unreasonable."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's frightening to see Fauchelevent turn so cold so quickly. Jehan and Enjolras exchange a questioning look; there is one question on their mind, and that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>what did Montparnasse do to him to make him hate him so much</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire doesn't look nearly as confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The young man smiles: "That's too bad. I'd already suitably compensated the driver to take us all away and keep quiet about it, but I suppose I could always go by myself and encourage him to seek a reward from the police instead."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras makes a decision before he's even done speaking: "He's riding with us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems to alarm Fauchelevent and please Montparnasse in equal, disturbing amounts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Excellent." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tips his hat again and gestures for them to move over a little. Reasonably enough (and thankfully) he seems to favour Enjolras and Jehan's side, probably on account of their significantly less imposing frame. It means he won't sit next to the weak Grantaire or the unstable Fauchelevent (who is already holding his arm out to shield the former). On the other hand, there is no way Enjolras will let him ride next to Jehan. He's not going to be a hostage again. Neither of them are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he switches places with the poet, giving Montparnasse a warning glare as he silently invites him to sit next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The young man does, to his credit, seem slightly impressed, but not intimidated by any stretch of the word. He sits next to Enjolras, shuts the door, and taps his cane twice on the roof of the carriage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage moves again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's awkward. It's horribly awkward. Almost comical, in all honesty, in the darkest sense of the word. Four felons and an old man sit in a carriage… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A joke without a punchline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse seems rather curious of them, and that's the worst part. If he </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> to make conversation, which is not his specialty by any means, Montparnasse might well be the last person he would pick to do so. Well, after Bouchard, clearly. Who they hopefully won't have to worry about ever again. If nothing else, at least Montparnasse has manners. Bouchard only has the </span>
  <em>
    <span>attempted</span>
  </em>
  <span> part in </span>
  <em>
    <span>attempted murder</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Then again, he also has that over Enjolras. And yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lovely curtains you have." comments Montparnasse. No one answers him, beyond an eye roll from Grantaire which apparently doesn't escape his notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What? It's small talk, Grantaire. Learn the art of small talk."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Learn the art of situational awareness." Grantaire sasses him right back, "I don't think anyone wants to speak about the damn curtains."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The young man frowns: "You're still so impolite."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm honest." he says, "I see no point in carrying on with a conversation no one wants to have."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Speaking for everyone isn't like you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Grantaire has a point." mumbles Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, yes." smiles Montparnasse, "Speaking for everyone is more </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>style. Tell me, how's that working for you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before the sting of rage in his gut can form into a coherent response, Grantaire shoots back: "You two have clearly never met. He doesn't do that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse seems genuinely curious: "Doesn't he? And how did you end up in his circle, then?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire just shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean, him and you… you seem utterly incompatible." he continues, "Opposites attract, I suppose."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am right here." mumbles Enjolras. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan snorts quietly beside him. This has the unfortunate side effect of catching Montparnasse's attention. And his distaste, apparently, as he frowns the moment his eyes land on Jehan: "Good heavens, who dressed you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan blushes violently, and his nervous habit of twisting his cuffs comes back at full force: "I- uh…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh dear, a pretty face like yours?" laments Montparnasse, "Don't waste it like that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Parnasse</span>
  </em>
  <span>…" Grantaire warns him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm just saying. If his shirt matched his coat, it would look much better."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut it, you dandy bastard." he growls, "Now's not the time for your fashion advice."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If not now, when?" he sighs, "I don't think I'll ever see any of you again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hopefully." whispers Enjolras, just loud enough for him to hear it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Rude." he scoffs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one dignifies him with a response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun rises over the walls of the city and the carriage doesn't stop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Enjolras finds, within the hour no less, that he has seriously underestimated Montparnasse's capacity to annoy every single person in the room. Or, the carriage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never shuts up, first of all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Secondly, he always seems to know where it hurts and strikes accordingly. It makes Enjolras wonder if he would've had any more sympathy for Grantaire had Montparnasse also been hanging around him. At this moment, he really does. He would take Grantaire's drunk rants any day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a question.” the young man says, out of nowhere, only seconds after his last comment on Jehan’s outfit went ignored. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan has long since stopped trying to answer him and no one else has any desire to talk to him, so his conversation starter falls into complete silence. He doesn’t let that deter him. Turning to Enjolras at his side, he asks: “How come you’re still around? I really thought you’d be the first to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s about as pleasant as a stab in the heart. Enjolras remembers, as a child, thinking that agreeing with someone meant less pain. He grew out of it quickly enough. It doesn’t make it any better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he doesn’t have time to answer before someone clears his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Montparnasse, I say this with love, you are treading on some of the thinnest ice I've ever seen." warns Grantaire, "Trust me, I should know. I've stomped all over the damn thing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words still won’t come. Any words he might’ve conjured died the moment Grantaire decided to defend him for whatever reason. So he doesn’t say anything. Montparnasse quirks his brow: “If you’ve crossed the Ice King’s lake with iron shoes, how come you haven’t drowned?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have.” says Grantaire. He doesn’t clarify or explain. He shrugs off every question that follows. So they stop asking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In all honesty, it's not as hard for Enjolras to understand what he means. He's </span>
  <em>
    <span>drowned</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yes, he's broken the thin surface of Enjolras's patience and fallen into the icy depths of his contempt. Enjolras has to wonder if he has realised that he's been long since pulled out of that frozen lake. Or, at the very least, sunk so far down that he found the warmer currents of the Earth. He has to wonder if Grantaire still sees himself clinging to the slabs of cracked ice until his fingers bleed. If he still feels suffocated by that cold, unforgiving water. If he thinks that the ice has long since reformed over him, if he thinks that he has no chance of ever getting out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's never going to have a serious conversation with him until Montparnasse is far out of earshot, though, so he has to bite his tongue for the time being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the constant stream of jabs and criticism tapers off, replaced by complete silence. They're still at least two hours away from where Montparnasse needs to get off, though, which isn't ideal. It's almost nighttime. The driver will probably want to stop soon enough, one way or another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So where are you headed, exactly?" asks Montparnasse, tapping the pommel of his cane, "Lots of places to avoid the police. For me, at least. Robbery and murder aren't quite as big a problem as high treason, I'm afraid."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That is one of the problems of this government." mumbles Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah! He speaks!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only sometimes." clarifies Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"When I care to." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, I see. Selective, are we?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How on Earth did you manage to lead a revolt?" scoffs Montparnasse, "You're about as warm as a slab of stone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only Grantaire answers him, softly: “You should see him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look Montparnasse gives him is telling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One more hour slides by without incident. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time, though, the script is flipped and Grantaire is the one who has a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about the rest of you lot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse gives him a look that is almost a glare. Clearly, he doesn’t know Grantaire all that well, or he would know that such looks only encourage him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Where is the rest of the gang, eh?" he insists, "Still in Paris?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Most likely." he answers between his teeth, "In prison, for the most part. Claquesous is dead. So is…" for the first time that day, he hesitates, "So is Éponine." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire stops smiling: "Shit, really? How did she even… I… how?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I believe your friend here can answer that question." says Montparnasse, coldly, tilting his head towards Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras, on his part, has no idea what he's talking about. Maybe he does. The name sounds vaguely familiar, in the same way that a lot of names do. And, if he's referring to those that died at the barricade, there is plenty of choice there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But… Éponine. A girl's name. There is only one woman from the barricade that he clearly remembers, and…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something clicks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Marius's friend." he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse nods, though the mention of Marius's name is apparently enough to make his rosey lip twist in a scowl: "I suppose you could call her that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The one that…" Enjolras trails off, but he raises his hand to mimic blocking the barrel of a gun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse frowns: "Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hang on, what?" interrupts Grantaire, "What does </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>…" he repeats Enjolras's gesture, "...mean, exactly?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse stares at him with eyes that smirk </span>
  <em>
    <span>go on, say it, out loud</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She took…" he sighs, "She took a bullet for Marius."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence grows thick. There is a split second, as he registers the news, when a shadow passes over Grantaire's eyes and his hand twitches to close around an imaginary bottle. It's gone as quickly as it came, though, and he shrugs nonchalantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well…" he says, "Can't imagine why."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The joke falls flatter than paper and Grantaire stops talking altogether.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent exchanges a look with Jehan that no one sees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse takes off his hat and carries it in his lap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The time draws near. Montparnasse taps his cane twice on the roof and asks the driver how long till they reach his destination. The driver says they will reach it within a few minutes, discreetly, and then he'll be off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage, true to his word, stops after a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Excellent." Montparnasse shifts in his seat, "It was starting to feel quite stuffy in here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can't imagine why." mumbles Enjolras, earning himself another glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't be that way, love." warns the former gang leader sitting next to him, "You never know. Maybe we'll meet again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's hope not."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse huffs out a small laughter: "Are you always like this?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No." Jehan and Grantaire answer in unison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He just isn't too fond of you for some strange reason." snickers Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>I can't imagine why</span>
  </em>
  <span>." mocks Montparnasse, "Either way, it was a displeasure to ride with you, gentlemen. Good day."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The driver taps furiously to indicate that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you can leave now, please and thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. One curt snap back from Montparnasse shuts him up immediately and, seemingly in no hurry whatsoever, the young man gathers his things and stands up to leave. Grantaire's eyes practically scream </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Until, that is, Montparnasse turns back to look at them, at which point it morphs into a clear and solid </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"One more thing." he says, digging into the pocket of his well-tailored coat, "I believe you lost something."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras raises his brow, but Montparnasse isn't looking at him. He's staring directly at Jehan, who looks both confused and slightly scared. His hand brushes against the back of Enjolras's arm and he feels just about ready to aim it at Montparnasse's jaw if he tries anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes something out of his pocket and, without hurry, tosses it at Jehan. The poet catches it in an almost frantic manner, fumbling to get both his hands around it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's… a notebook. A very small notebook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan seems rather shocked to see it: "How-?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stole it off of old Thénardier. Things like poetry are wasted in hands like his." smiles Montparnasse, "I like the one about ivy. For someone with such poor fashion sense, you certainly have a way with words; still, I don't recommend taking something like this with you when you're fighting. Goodbye, gentlemen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tips his hat at them and goes to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait!" says Jehan, fumbling through the notebook. Montparnasse, as though he was expecting to be stopped, turns around, batting his eyelashes questioningly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan, not without some effort, stands for the first time in hours and scrambles to pass Enjolras's legs, holding out a piece of paper with one hand and clutching the notebook to his heart with the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse's gaze flies back and forth between his face and his outstretched hand a few times. In the end, he gives up and shakes his head slightly in confusion: "What is it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Here." insists Jehan, holding the piece of paper a bit closer to him, "As… well, as thanks."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse gives him a few different looks of confusion, wariness and amusement: "What? For me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Really?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I insist."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks confused for one more moment, and then utterly delighted: "How lovely. Thank you." he says, bowing his head slightly and taking the paper from Jehan's hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan waves at him awkwardly as he descends the steps of the carriage. Enjolras can feel himself oscillate continuously through what is probably the entire spectrum of human emotion between fear and confusion. Grantaire looks very amused and slightly afraid. Fauchelevent just looks away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, best of luck to you all." Montparnasse tips his hat again, "Grantaire, try not to snap those stitches. I know you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire grumbles a probably embarrassed affirmative response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Enjolras, if you don't relax for a bit I'm afraid those veins in your neck will pop."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras just rolls his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monsieur, it was good to hear your voice while you still spoke."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I speak." mumbles Fauchelevent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And that is very good indeed." grins Montparnasse, "And Prouvaire…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan waves awkwardly once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse smiles almost genuinely: "Take care."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuts the door and walks away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage runs again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Montparnasse exists to spite God and everyone else.<br/>Imagine being stuck in a carriage with him for twelve hours. A nightmare.<br/>Also, 'Ponine rights!!! kinda.</p><p>Leave a comment because 3000 words is a lot<br/>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. You're Not Alone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes days of travel, by three different carriages and with a wide employ of Fauchelevent’s typical </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m taking my nephews on vacation</span>
  </em>
  <span> excuse, to get to the little village outside of Rouen. It works surprisingly well, considering how different they look from each other. Although, admittedly, there are some similarities between Fauchelevent and Grantaire, and Jehan and Enjolras share their fair complexion and their blue eyes. So two boys without siblings become brothers, and Grantaire gains a new father. He seems quite happy about that. Jehan, on his part, has not left Enjolras’s side the whole time and he finds that he doesn’t mind. He would probably mind a lot more if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>stick with him. Any time he can’t see him or Grantaire, there is a painful spike of anxiety in his gut. Luckily, none of them have any desire to go off on their own. Well, Grantaire does, only at night, but he’s not allowed to go further than a room away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He utterly refuses to sleep in the same room as them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan and Fauchelevent seem to understand him immediately and don’t object at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras honestly has no idea what’s wrong with him. Well, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> is wrong with him, anyway, besides the elephant in the room that everyone vehemently refuses to talk about. Not that he’s blaming them. He doesn’t want to bring it up either. It’s just that the way Jehan has always stuck by someone’s side for the past week at least, day and night, makes his heart sink. It’s just that the way Grantaire locks the room twice before going to bed makes anxiety twist his guts. It's just that Fauchelevent hasn't spoken for a whole day. It’s just that his anxiety will not leave even when they're there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A week after they’ve said goodbye to Paris, they reach the safehouse. It’s a cottage, with two floors and a very small cellar, including four rooms (one of which remains empty, another of which is occupied by both Jehan and Enjolras and the candle that Jehan insists on keeping lit in the room) and a small garden that has grown a little too wild.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one minds, mostly because Jehan immediately looks better as soon as his leg brushes against the first patch of ivy. He sits on the steps to the front door, the sun on his face and miles and miles of green and yellow and pink ahead of him, and he looks the most peaceful they’ve seen him in days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still doesn’t want to be alone. Even four days later, he sticks to whoever’s closer. As soon as Enjolras, the only one who lingered, decides to enter the house again, he immediately stumbles to his feet and trails after him like a lost duck. Enjolras doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he turns around and says: “I think I forgot something in the garden. Near the apple tree.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan, predictably, offers to go with him, forgetting that Enjolras has never stepped near the apple tree in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” he says, “Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a bit of a skip in Jehan’s step as he follows him outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s sunny today.” he comments, trailing behind Enjolras with the ghost of a smile on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh.” he nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to look at him as they reach the tree and almost loses his courage right then and there. It wasn’t the ghost of a smile he saw on Jehan’s face. It was a real smile. The first in a long time. It’ll fade the moment he’s confronted with whatever he's trying so hard to hide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, once again, he reminds himself that Jehan needs to discuss his feelings in order to process them correctly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jehan…" he starts, trying his hardest not to sound aggressive or overly inquisitive. The words freeze on his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan frowns a bit: "Yes? What's wrong?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Out with it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jehan, are you afraid the police will be back?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe a bit too forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, it gets the job done, if by </span>
  <em>
    <span>the job</span>
  </em>
  <span> one means </span>
  <em>
    <span>making him look absolutely terrified all of a sudden</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stutters out a poor imitation of a response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I- uh- no, I mean- well… you see, I… I don't…" he trails off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a very deep breath and tries again: "No, not really. Why?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras quirks his brow: "You know, you can tell me. I just want to understand if-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, Enjolras, we're so far away. We're in the middle of nowhere here." he replies, with a lot more certainty than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We are."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then why do you say that? Are you afraid they followed us?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, that's… don't turn this on </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I asked because…" he fixes the cuff of his coat nervously, "...because I've noticed you never want to be alone, and you always stick with me, and I was just… look, you don't have to keep quiet about it. I'll protect you." he promises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan's face falls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's not it." he whispers, "No, no, I trust you with my life, Enjolras. You, Grantaire… Fauchelevent, too. You won't let me get hurt, I know that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enjolras, I see that self-deprecating answer on your face and I don’t want to hear it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” he concedes. "So why-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's nothing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jehan-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's alright, it's just… it's nothing important."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jehan, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> on Earth are you clinging to everyone like this??" he asks, completely exasperated, only to regret it the moment Jehan answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because I don't want to die alone!!" he explodes, a million miles a minute. He doesn’t stop. Not even to breathe: "I was at the barricade with all of you and I felt- and I felt as safe as I could feel in a place like that, because you all were closer to me than anyone else and I felt like I belonged and I felt like if I had to die then </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> would be the hill I would die on! Because it's selfish, but I wanted you with me, and I- and they put a bandage over my eyes, and it was dark, and I couldn't see you- hear you, I couldn't feel anyone there, only guns and smoke and death and I thought that </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> would be the last thing I ever saw and when I woke up in a cell I almost cried just because I could see light again!! I was- I w- I was just- </span>
  <em>
    <span>scared</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His outburst slowly fades, sentence by sentence, until it becomes nothing more than a whisper spoken through unshed tears and shaky, shallow breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's horrifying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras remains silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I- uh- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I took the blindfold, I know you didn- I know you didn't want it, I j-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jehan."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan, with his eyes still wide and full of tears, turns his head away: "Sorry." he mumbles, "Sorry, it's just been a bit stressful is a-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't finish the sentence. Enjolras's hands set on his shoulders firmly, but gently, as if asking for permission.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives him an interrogative look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras tugs him a little closer, until his head is resting on his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're not alone." he murmurs, "If you don't want to be alone, you'll never be alone again. I'll see to that myself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan chokes a sob: "Oh, tha… thank you, I…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shh. And Jehan?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't care about a damn blindfold."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't say anything more. He just closes his arms around him and leans on his shoulder like he did before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun sets. Grantaire yells for them to come back inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looks at him, Jehan is smiling again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you like the wholesome Jehan and Enjolras interactions, you are in luck. If you like other wholesome interactions, you'll be in luck very soon  :)))<br/>Jehan needs a hug and I volunteer. I'll give him ALL the hugs. I'll give hugs to everyone in this story except Bouchard (Parnasse is on thin ice but if he behaves and has no weapons on him I'll consider it)</p><p>Leave a comment because yes.</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Wave and riptide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>Seven days and seven nights go by without incident for the first time in almost two weeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan sits outside most of the time, or at the window if no one can accompany him to the garden. He sits with his notebook in his lap, occasionally scrawling something down, quiet but seemingly content. At night, he wakes up crying sometimes, and tells Enjolras a story.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s always a new story.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One night, it’s about a dragon. The next is about a spirit who sleeps through the winter. The next is about the origin of stars. Jehan never seems to run out of stories to tell him. It never fails to make both of them feel better, but it can't make it any more pleasant to see Jehan wake up in tears. Disturbingly, Enjolras has yet to wake from any of the nightmares that seem to be tormenting the others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He realizes it late one night, when the house is silent: for the first time in years, it’s been days since he’s talked to Combeferre. It may be days or years until he does. It may be forever. It feels worse than he ever imagined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras’s dreams, vivid and noisy, have been completely silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bright red that haunted his entire adolescence has turned to nothing. Not black, not grey, not white, simply void. Nothing. In his dreams there is only nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every night, he sits awake on the bed, watching the candle flicker, because God forbid Jehan wake up alone in the dark. And because sleep, for whatever reason, will not come to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are nights when he wants to bang his head against the wall until sleep finally decides to grace him with its presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there are nights when he doesn't even question it. Nights when he contents himself with watching the flame of the candle dance in the still air of the room, the flourishes on the wallpaper, the way the sheets fold around his hips and the leaves painted on the inside of the shutters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s on one such night, at least an hour or two after midnight, that he hears something from the next room. From Grantaire’s room, to be precise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His blood runs cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound is muffled as though through a pillow, a gag, </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and whoever is making the sound is clearly not getting enough air to scream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wave crashes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbles out of bed and out of the room a little too quickly; he doesn't know if it's the fickle candlelight or his body failing to catch up to his mind, but the hallway swirls around him like a riptide, drawing him in and pulling him under.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire's room is still locked. Enjolras, feeling his panic rise to his throat, has to talk before it can choke him: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Grantaire, are you alright?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's no answer beyond the noise ceasing completely all of a sudden. If he'd been struggling, shouldn't it only get louder? What is in there that he can't or won't free himself from?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's too many possibilities, each one more terrifying than the next. They hit him all at once, just like in jail, because Grantaire is a creature of uncertainty and improvisation, and there is nothing scarier than leaving one such creature alone for too long and being unable to see them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Grantaire!!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" he repeats, pounding his fist against the door, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Answer me!! Are you alone in there? Do you need help?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>No reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Answer me, dammit!!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" he growls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's about half a second away from kicking down the door when the lock clicks open. His muscles relax for a moment, more out of surprise than anything else, then tense up again when the hinges creak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's only a bleary-eyed Grantaire that greets him through the small crack of the open door: "Energetic, are we?" he quips, but his voice sounds odd. Sort of muffled, sort of rough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The annoyance fades from his face the moment his eyes land on Enjolras's: "Oh, Jesus. Are you alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That question throws him off more than anything Grantaire's ever said. Which is an achievement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only notices the tear running down his cheek when it splashes on the ground between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What…?" he repeats, blankly, staring at the tiny circular stain that one tear left on the floorboards. It'll be gone in a matter of minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire frowns: "Hey, what's wrong? Do you need something?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him way too long to answer. Grantaire opens the door all the way. The room is just the same as it was before, empty and slightly messy. The shutters are closed tight and the windows are locked. Nothing's been moved. So… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No." he decides, "No, I… I must've been dreaming."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dreaming</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" Grantaire's brows shoot up in complete disbelief, "Dreaming of </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Do you need to talk about it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's fine if you do. I wasn't sleeping anyway."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You weren't…" he nods, "Well, that settles it. Unless you were screaming into a pillow, I must've been dreaming."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire's gaze shifts strangely and falls to the floor: "Yeah. I don't think you're getting enough sleep. You look really tired. Your head might be playing tricks on you. Trust me, I'd know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last part is spoken very quietly, and it's about as much convincing as he needs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll go back to bed." he sighs, "I didn't mean to disturb you. Sorry. See you tomorrow."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's barely taken two steps back when Grantaire calls out: "Hey, Enjolras."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you for checking in." he smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They part ways.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jehan must be mercifully tired from that little gardening session with Fauchelevent. It would explain why all the shouting didn't seem to wake him and why his sleep is deep and peaceful for once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, the shouting </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> wake Fauchelevent, who got out of bed not two seconds after Enjolras went back to their room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man knocks quietly on Grantaire's door. Enjolras doesn't hear the exchange, but Fauchelevent is apparently satisfied with whatever explanation he received, because he returns to his own room immediately afterwards. After quietly taking a peek in their room as well, of course, and checking that they're both safe in their beds. He's kind like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Enjolras, though his eyes remain closed and his breathing even, is too tormented by what Grantaire said to fall asleep. He was awake the whole time. Assuming that he's telling the truth (and why wouldn't he?), by all means, he should've heard the muffled scream too. But he didn’t mention it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras begins to fear for either his sanity, or Grantaire's. One of them has to be lying or delusional. Right? The sound would definitely have been loud enough for him to hear if he really was awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, Grantaire has had hallucinations before. Maybe he just hasn’t registered it. But that makes no sense either, because he should have sprung at the opportunity to confirm his account with another witness. To confirm it was real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The best case scenario is that he simply dozed off without realising it and, believing he'd been awake the whole time, gave a false account. That still wouldn't explain the sound, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The worst case scenario is the highly unlikely scenario in which someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>attack him, went into hiding, and forced him into silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, it's improbable, but not impossible, and that tiny little probability is clawing at the panic responses in his brain. He decides to sit up against the wall and keep listening. If there's any more suspicious noises, he's not going to knock next time.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sometimes wholesome and angsty can and should coexist. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.</p><p>And yes, Jehan and Valjean did gardening together because why wouldn't they?  :,)</p><p>See y'all next chapter, where angst and fluff continue to coexist in the safehouse  :)</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. You're Safe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He wakes up with a pain in his neck, looking down at his folded knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with a suspicious sound nearby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head shoots up so fast that he nearly bangs it against the wall behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone's having trouble breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> is Jehan, lying stiff as a board and pale as a ghost in his bed, his head bent towards him and his eyes so wide that he can see their colour clearly from where he sits. They are fixed on Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks scared at best, deathly ill at worst.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras stands up as quickly as he can, scrambling his way to his friend’s bedside: "Jehan, are you alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan doesn't answer. His jaw twitches, but his mouth can't seem to form the right words, or any words at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jehan." he repeats, "What's wrong? Answer me, please. Can you breathe? Is it your throat? Jehan?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jaw twitches again, but he remains silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jehan, I'm getting worried. What's wrong?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's going on here?" Grantaire calls out from the doorway, sounding more than a little panicked. As soon as his eyes land on Jehan, though, for whatever reason, he seems to relax a bit: "Oh."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras can't contain his exasperation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>? What do you mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He isn't moving!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tiny, uneasy sound escapes Jehan's throat, like the hiss of steam. Like his voice stopped working. Grantaire limps to their side. He looks almost… amused, which is both worrying and infuriating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's nothing." he says, "It happens to me too. Here, let me help."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without waiting for a reply, he sits on the bed beside Jehan and gently holds his wrist in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright." he starts, "First of all, stay calm. We're here with you. You can't move, right? It's okay, it's normal. I promise. Now, move your finger. Just one finger. Alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan gives both of them a look halfway between pleading and confused. Seeing Grantaire nod, though, he does as he's told and slowly lifts his index finger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, like that. Good. Now two fingers."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, his middle finger moves too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're doing great. Alright, now a bit more. Close your hand and clench your fist." he encourages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan closes his eyes. His jaw is set with pure concentration. The two fingers he's already moved close easily. The others follow, slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras feels himself fade into the background of the scene. He scoots away to give Grantaire a bit more space, which he seems more than grateful for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once Jehan has managed to clench his fists, it all seems to go smooth from there. Grantaire folds and straightens his elbow a few times and then invites him to do it himself. He tells him to pretend he's chewing on a steak. He talks him through the whole thing, poking fun at him in that affectionate way that used to confuse him so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Jehan manages to sit up and immediately sinks into Grantaire’s arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You did good." says the latter, patting his back, "Was that the first time this happened to you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I've had these attacks since I was nine years old." explains Grantaire, "The key is to stay calm and move one limb at a time. Start small. If you try to sit up right away you'll just strain yourself and panic."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mh." Jehan nods against his shoulder, "Thanks, R. I thought I couldn't move anymore."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His speech sounds a bit slurred but, if it doesn't alarm Grantaire, it's probably normal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The first time is always the scariest." he shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I just… I saw Enjolras sitting against the wall, and I thought… I don't know, I was afraid something had happened to him." admits Jehan, “I’ve had dreams like that.” he adds, under his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm fine." Enjolras clarifies immediately, "I just fell asleep."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I knew you were tired." comments Grantaire, shaking his head in mock disapproval, "Do take your naps in a more comfortable position, though. I imagine your neck is killing you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is." he sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other two give him a sympathetic look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun rises.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Enjolras notices it at lunch, the others at breakfast, but none of them say a word about it until after dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, so what's wrong with Fauchelevent?" Grantaire asks them quietly, entering their room unannounced. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan, in the middle of undoing his braid, gives him a questioning look. Enjolras closes the book he was reading.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know." he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But you've noticed it too, right?" Grantaire insists. He pulls a chair from the corner, sitting in the space between their twin beds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You mean how he hasn't said a word for two days?" Jehan frowns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I did notice he looked… I don't know. Upset." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I saw him write something yesterday." says Grantaire, "A lot of things, in fact. He seemed really frustrated though, like he couldn't get it right. He burned all those papers."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He did that in front of you?" Enjolras quirks his brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I said I saw </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I never said </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>saw </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>." he points out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think it was?” asks Jehan, sitting on the edge of his bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question, reasonable as it is, stirs something unwanted in Enjolras’s head. Yes, indeed. What is it? The worst possibilities begin to flash through his mind. Why did he look so regretful? Why did he burn the papers? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bouchard said </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> gave them away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then why would he take them far from Paris? Why take care of them?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It occurs to him that it might have been his original plan to betray them. It wouldn’t have been his first lie. Maybe he changed his mind. Still, the possibility that he might have, at any point in time, wanted to turn them in… it’s disturbing. It makes his skin crawl with the urge to cut his losses, take his friends and run. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t do that, of course. Grantaire can walk, but he certainly can’t run. If he strains himself too much, it will be dangerous. Also, while none of them are especially sickly, running away into the open, day and night, could put their health at serious risk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s one potential solution in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” he repeats, tiredly, “I will go talk to him. Is that alright with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan looks a bit nervous: “Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grantaire, can I have a word with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh… of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan meets his eyes. He looks slightly panicked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be just outside the door.” Enjolras assures him, “It’ll only take a minute. Here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hands him the poetry book on the nearest shelf: “Let me know if you find one you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan looks both reluctant and eager. “Fine…” he murmurs, accepting the book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire is smiling on his way out the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I didn’t expect you to take the </span>
  <em>
    <span>big brother</span>
  </em>
  <span> act so seriously, but I can’t say I dislike it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know what you're talking about." sighs Enjolras, "Listen, I need you to do something."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire looks a bit flustered, like he genuinely did not expect to be asked for his cooperation. In all fairness, he probably didn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras lowers his voice: "Stay with Jehan. He doesn’t want to be alone, so he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be left alone. Am I making myself clear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As crystal.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Stay with him and get all your things together. If this goes wrong, I need you both to be ready."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile falls: "If </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> goes wrong, exactly?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm going to confront M. Fauchelevent about what he was writing." he whispers, "It could be nothing. But I can't be sure of that until I hear it from him. Remember what the inspector said?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Someone gave us away." Grantaire guesses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He looked…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Regretful. Conflicted. Suspicious."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, I'll give you that." nods Grantaire, scratching the fuzz on his chin, "That </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a bit suspicious."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't tell Jehan anything."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We don't want to worry him until we have an answer. Is that it?" he sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright." Grantaire agrees, "Just be careful with it. Fauchelevent looks like he could snap you in two, no offense."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"None taken, you're right."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire chuckles under his breath: "Oh, I did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>think I'd live to hear those words."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't." frowns Enjolras, and he thankfully catches on immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He limps his way back into the room. Enjolras leaves without a second glance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Halfway down the stairs, he can already hear the scratch of pen against paper.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh, is it Author Projection Time again? Apparently yes.<br/>I'd take the opportunity to share some tips on sleep paralysis but R already said most of it  :,)   his advice is from personal experience. Trying to scream (your vocal cords are paralyzed too and will not appreciate the strain), sit up, roll over or any such big movements will make you panic faster. Starting with your fingers, toes and jaw and working your way up works a lot better  :)</p><p>This was a Sleep Paralysis PSA because I want y'all to be safe  &lt;3<br/>R teased Enj about immediately adapting to the big brother role but honestly, he's a hypocrite. He adopted Jehan like a week ago.</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Letters/ The New Red and Black</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"Monsieur." he greets. Fauchelevent only answers him with a nod. He’s currently busy putting the ink bottle away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to talk to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That gets him to raise his head from the desk: “What is it, my boy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Important.” says Enjolras, “That’s what.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lock on the drawer clicks shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent turns the chair around to face him: "Don't stall, then. What is it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It occurs to Enjolras at that exact moment that he has </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> planned this conversation in the slightest. Especially not how to address his concerns. How would he start a conversation like that? Brutally direct? No, that would give Grantaire a lot less time to get ready. On the other hand, stalling too much would be suspicious now that he’s told him it’s important. His best option is an excuse. A good one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent looks uneasy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just…” he starts, “I just wanted to ask you what’s wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That seems to catch him off-guard: “Excuse me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, I’m in it now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve noticed you seem upset. You’ve been very quiet.” he explains, “Jehan was a bit worried. I promised I’d talk to you about it. So, what’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man’s face softens: “Of course he was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He worries a lot." nods Enjolras, "But Grantaire doesn't, and he seemed pretty concerned too. So?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent gives a very long sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's nothing." he says, "Nothing to be concerned about. I just… I'm not the best at writing letters."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's admitting it. That's a good sign.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Letters about what, Monsieur?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's the issue." he sighs, "I really don't know how to go about this. I can't mention </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, can I? And I don't want to give this address away. But…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His blood runs cold. That's a less good sign. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, the fear climbs up his throat and turns his tongue to stone. All he can do is stare, stiffly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent notices: "What is it? Is something wrong?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who…" he forces himself to whisper, "Who are the… who are the letters for?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something seems to click with Fauchelevent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh." he says. "Oh! They're for my daughter, I just… I didn't have time to tell her I was leaving and I don't want her to be worried, but I can’t… I can't just write her a letter explaining I'm harbouring fugitives, that's just too liable to be intercepted and… wait."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gears click into place behind his tired eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait." he repeats, dumbfounded, "Did you think I… oh, God, no!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes terribly pale looking at Enjolras: "No, I would never give you away! None of you! I'm sorry I made you think that. You are safe with me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras nods, stiffly, but Fauchelevent presses on: "I'm very sorry. I just wanted to let Cosette know I was safe. I'm sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's alright."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man's face softens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise I will do everything in my power to keep you boys out of danger." he says, more calmly, "Believe me, I know the place you're in. It's a terrifying place. But you're not alone in there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras nods, quietly, but on his way out the room, he whispers: "I wish I was."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The peace of the bedroom is almost like whiplash. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he enters the room, he finds Jehan and Grantaire still sitting as they were. The turmoil in his heart finds shelter in Jehan’s voice, as the words of another poet spill from his mouth like gentle raindrops. Grantaire, on his part, seems to be listening very closely, leaning against the headboard to look over the book's cover at the page Jehan is reading from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's hypnotising.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras stands frozen in the doorway, burning every detail of that perfect picture in his mind. From the strand of red hair that falls loose on Jehan's shoulder, to the small green stain on his cuff, to the tiny dent in the headboard; from the slight dimple that forms on Grantaire's right cheek when he smiles, to the wear on his trousers from always sitting on the floor, to the slight tilt of his chair. All is as it should be. It's one brief moment of perfection, and he sees them as though through the surface of a painting: flawless, close and distant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The surface breaks. Grantaire looks up at him and greets him with a wave of his hand, and Jehan interrupts his reading to see what's caught his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hi." he greets, "So? Is M. Fauchelevent alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The message is clear behind his eyes: </span>
  <em>
    <span>should we run?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras closes the door behind him, shaking his head a little: "He was just worried about his daughter. She doesn't know he's here and he was considering writing her a letter, but…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But we're here too." completes Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, I'm no good with words…" he sighs, "But we do have someone who is."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their heads, of course, turn to Jehan. Who is staggeringly oblivious, for a few seconds. Then it clicks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The poet’s face flushes a bit: “Oh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Well, uh… I suppose I could… try to advise him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds good. I was thinking about going downstairs as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire grimaces for a moment as he stands up, and his limp is still very visible, but he is leagues better than a few days ago. He can walk for almost five minutes without having to stop and rest, and get up from a chair on his own. Which is good for him, because he would have trouble locked up in his room otherwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he looks… mostly fine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has a kind of half smile on his face, all the time. He’s admittedly quieter than usual, but he’s not going to fault him for that. And he seems to be taking Jehan’s predicament very seriously, which can’t be said for many other things. But there’s something wrong with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pats Enjolras’s shoulder on the way out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should rest.” he tells him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then they’re out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his credit, Grantaire is right about him needing a rest. He must be, because Enjolras, for once, falls asleep the moment he lays his head down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s red in his dreams. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not the same as usual. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not the bright red of his flag.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a dark red, tainted by something horrible. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s his vest, covered in others' blood.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s the flag, tainted by dust and gunpowder.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a new red and black, blood and smoke, suffocating him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He isn’t breathing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>None of them are.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Enjolras wakes up tangled in his sheets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s so hard to breathe.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Short and kinda sweet today  :)<br/>Not much to say about this one except I hope Marius is keeping Cosette busy enough that she won't call rhe cops </p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Don't be quiet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When he wakes up from the first nightmare he’s had in weeks, it’s late at night. Jehan is fast asleep in the other bed, and his quiet, regular breaths indicate that he’s been asleep for a while. He’s so still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras slowly untangles himself from the mess of sheets around his waist. No wonder he couldn’t breathe. It was tied so tight around him that it made it hard for his lungs to expand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbles quietly out of bed. On his way to the door, he brushes his hand against Jehan’s arm. He finds it warm, solid, pulsing with life. Reassured, he creeps out the door, fully intending to return within the next few minutes, but knowing he will not rest until he’s checked the entire house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>First is Fauchelevent’s room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a small one, surprisingly small, with only a simple bed, a chair and a cabinet where two unlit silver candlesticks rest. The old man sleeps, rather peacefully, curled up under clean white sheets. He seems to keep all his limbs close to himself, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a smile on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras slips out the door again, leaving him to his peaceful rest. He must be having a good dream, he thinks, and leaves it at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next is Grantaire’s room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s normally locked, of course, but at least he can quickly listen in. He hasn’t quite forgotten the muffled scream from the other night; it lives in his mind still, and the uncertainty born of their differing accounts haunts him. It could be nothing. Grantaire could have been asleep. But, one way or another, he heard a scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, before he’s even reached the room, he hears it again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a scream this time. It’s hardly a whimper, but it’s there and it’s not supposed to be there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hurries to press his ear against the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door clicks open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whimpers cease immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he’s too shocked to enter the room. Grantaire must’ve forgotten to lock it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he does collect himself and walk in, the bed is empty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It startles him for a moment. The bed is empty. Why is it empty? Where is he? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is silent. The room is silent and the bed is empty. The room is silent, the bed is empty and Grantaire is not there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Enjolras turns his head, he meets his eyes. He’s curled up in the corner, just out of vision from the door, his hands pressed tight over his mouth and his dark eyes wide with pure terror. It's… disturbing. He looks like he was caught with a knife at the scene of a crime, and for what? Crying?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras slowly closes the door behind him: "What's wrong?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A muffled chuckle comes from Grantaire, but there are tears spilling from his eyes. He just shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And here I thought you were honest, Grantaire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A scoff that sounds like both a laugh and a sob comes from behind the makeshift muzzle on Grantaire's mouth. He looks like he's trying to mask his painful sobs with fits of laughter, which makes him look uncanny and rather grotesque. The corners of his mouth, poking out from behind his hands, are pulling violently up and down, as though there were invisible little demons trying to sneak a peek at his throat. But he holds his ground, stubbornly, pressing down harder and harder on his face until his cheeks turn white.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's horrible. It's simply horrible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way he desperately tries to stifle the noise is nothing short of that word, however strong it may be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras kneels in front of him: "Why now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between one sob and the other, Grantaire makes a clearly interrogative noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why be quiet now, Grantaire? You're not the type to remain silent. You were taunting guards while they had a bayonet trained on you." he frowns, "Why be quiet now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another sobbing laugh. His hands won't budge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I see." he murmurs, "But I don't… well… quite understand."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he knows it, he's closed his hands around Grantaire's wrists. It's a gentle, but firm grip, and Grantaire doesn't fight it, initially. Not until he starts pulling his hands away from his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why be quiet?" he repeats, calmly, as Grantaire tries his hardest to move his arms back to his face, "Don't be quiet. It doesn't suit you. Be loud, R."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire stops struggling. He looks at him with wide eyes, transparent as always, but for once incomprehensible on account of the sheer volume of emotions behind them. He allows him, almost out of shock, to pull his hands away, but his mouth remains shut as though someone had sewn his lips together with wire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras takes it as a good sign. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking at his face, he knows what he needs to say: "I won't tell you to be quiet. I promise. No matter how loud you cry. I won't tell you to shut up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The familiar sting of guilt in his gut doesn't vanish. But, admittedly, when Grantaire finally makes a sound (for as horrible as the sound is, a distorted scream muffled by his own closed lips), it does feel a bit better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire tries his best to keep his mouth shut, initially. His pitiful muffled screams are bad enough, but when they pull and push at his jaw for him to open his mouth and let out the torrent of sound that has built inside of him, it's something else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He screams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire wails; a loud, guttural sound rips violently from his throat and he screams until he has no air left. He takes a short, painful breath and he screams again, long and loud, and his hands twitch and clench. It's as though merely breathing causes him pain, as though the air that enters his lungs were fire that he must expel at all costs. It's as though being awake and alive were pure agony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Enjolras, at this moment, it might as well be. The screams are even worse than his imagination had dared to conjure, every time since the prison that Grantaire has been even remotely in danger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These are real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras holds his wrist, his right wrist still, but the other hand goes to his shoulder to support him. Grantaire only cries louder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As expected, the sound draws the attention of the other inhabitants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Enjolras freezes. Jehan will probably wake up alone. But the fear subsides when he sees him run in with Fauchelevent in tow, without a hint of that blind fear in his eyes. Jehan runs directly to them, dropping to his knees so fast that it's going to leave a bruise: "R!! Grantaire!!" he cries, "My friend, what's the matter? Are you hurt?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire shakes his head furiously. His screams don't cease. They are spilling uncontrollably from his lips at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent asks something, but it's covered by an unfortunately timed wail from Grantaire. Jehan brushes a lock of his dark hair from his face and leans into his good side, supporting him with one arm around his back. Grantaire seems to calm down, ever so slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until, at the drop of a dime, he goes pale. He's still wailing like a forsaken ghost, but there's more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"M… mmmm… my hhhh… hands-" he wheezes, between one painful breath and the next, "I can- I c- I can't f- </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can't feel my hands! I can't feel my hands</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!" he screams, like a madman, like a prisoner at the gallows, with all the desperation of someone who already has the noose around his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras acts before he can think. With his free hand, he grabs Grantaire's. He squeezes tightly, until a bit of colour returns to his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent left, either to leave them alone or to retrieve anything that could help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan murmurs words of reassurance into Grantaire’s ear: "You're going to be alright. Your hands are just fine. You still have them both, see? And you're not going to fall, or be injured, because we're here to hold you. Alright? You'll be fine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the screams turn to incoherent words, the words turn to loud sobs, and those in turn become quiet sobs. When even those fade, Grantaire leans on Jehan's shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, this is embarrassing." he mumbles. His voice is rough and a bit shaky, but the worst has passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not." Jehan shakes his head, "It's not. You needed that. You had so much on your shoulders, R."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something clicks behind his eyes: "R…" he repeats. He turns to Enjolras: "You called me R."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras's jaw is set and still as marble. He can only nod stiffly at him and squeeze his hand a little tighter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You don't usually do that." mumbles Grantaire, scratching his chin with his free hand, "I could get used to it. Would you call me that again or was it only an emergency thing?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jaw just won't move. But his lips can, so the most he can do is give him the most sincere smile he can muster. The answer is a solid </span>
  <em>
    <span>I would do it again</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but the words are stuck. It doesn't matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Fauchelevent returns with tea for Grantaire, which he is very grateful for on account of being </span>
  <em>
    <span>bloody thirsty</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Enjolras finally lets go of his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not as cold this time.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry again R, it's author projection time  :D<br/>If I may get a little personal, R's panic attacks are derived directly from personal experience, this is me venting, send help, have a nice day  :DDD<br/>In all seriousness, though, I'm aware this is a stressful time, I hope this was cathartic and wholesome enough to make it even just a little bit better. Take care of yourselves, darlings  &lt;3  I'm with you</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Census</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>Summer passes, as all things do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Autumn paints the leaves orange and red like the cold flames of a play, the pomegranates fall from the tree behind Grantaire’s room, and it gets far too cold to stay outside all day as Jehan clearly wants to do. Occasionally, they have to drag him back inside. Sometimes he smiles. Sometimes he doesn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’s not smiling, he’s a heartbreaking sight to behold. He stares, lost in some terrible thought, at the falling leaves, and writes pages upon pages as soon as he gets his hands on a piece of paper, only to hide them in his pocket and forbid anyone from reading them. There’s something akin to possession whenever he writes after seeing the fallen leaves.  Falling, fallen, yellow, red, about to fall. Fallen. Dead. Dead leaves. It takes almost a month for Enjolras to catch on. When he does, it stings. It’s nothing new. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire had to find out about the gory details of the barricade eventually. When he finds the courage to ask, he sits them down and doesn’t let them go until he knows everything: from how Éponine’s hand was nearly blown off her wrist, to Papa Mabeuf and the flag. The twitch in his arm returns when they tell him about Gavroche.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still gets headaches sometimes, he still walks with a limp, and he still screams uncontrollably from time to time, in addition to the occasional nervous craving for wine, but at least he doesn’t have to face the wind alone anymore. One evening, they find him cradling his head in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” they ask him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire laughs bitterly: “No.” he mumbles, “No. I’ve got an iron poker in my head and my friends are dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one argues with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nightmares become more and more frequent for Enjolras, and it’s almost a relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If nothing else, he can see them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, they’re only nightmares after he wakes. They become nightmares only upon realising that none of it was real. He remembers having a long conversation with Combeferre, only to wake up and remember that he’s dead; a recurring dream, in fact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, the horror doesn’t wait until he wakes up. Sometimes, he sees the reflection of gunfire in Combeferre’s glasses or the rips and tears in his shirt, three exactly, spread out like feathers on a bird’s wings. Combeferre looks like a robin in those dreams, white shirt, red breast. Sometimes the room fills up with blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you real?" he remembers asking him once, when the flashes of fire in his glasses pulled the rug from under him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combeferre didn't answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And some are just plain nightmares. Some are just gunfire and blood and screams and little else. The new red and black, every few nights, is there to smother him, drown him, and he almost doesn’t care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent leaves, now and then, never for too long and never to Paris. He stops at nearby towns and sends heavily altered news to Cosette. He talks about her sometimes, more than even Marius did, and a picture of her begins to form in their minds. It’s a pretty picture, to be sure. Her handwriting is a little stilted, but graceful regardless. She sends news, says Marius is recovering fast, says there’s talks of a wedding, if her Papa is willing to negotiate with Marius’s grandfather. He does, always through letters, and the wedding preparations are underway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Only once does something give them reason for concern regarding the police. It happens when an officer from Rouen knocks on their door, mid-October. And Fauchelevent isn’t home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire gives them a single look. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Go somewhere else</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll handle it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens the door with a somehow completely casual attitude. Enjolras honestly has no idea how he can manage to hide </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> at all given his usual temperament, but then it occurs to him that Grantaire is and has always been a mystery not always worth investigating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, sir.” he greets, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anyone who knows Grantaire would pick up on the sarcasm in his voice and anyone who doesn’t would not. The bored-looking officer clearly does not know him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning. It’s nothing to worry about, sir, I am simply here for a census.” he says, completely deadpan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, you picked a bad day to come by, I’m afraid.” sighs Grantaire, “My father isn’t here. Is that going to be a problem?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all, as long as you can tell me his name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer sits, without asking, at the small table on the porch so he can write.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is your name, sir?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gabriel Fabre.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is your father’s name?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Urbain Fabre.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does anyone else live in this house, M. Fabre?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My cousins.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are their names?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Julien and Apollon Fabre.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time, the officer looks up at him: “Unique name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What can I say?” shrugs </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gabriel</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t lived here very long, have you, M. Fabre?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire frowns: “No, we moved here quite recently. Why do you ask?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you see, I was responsible for last year’s census as well and I never saw you around here.” explains the man, “Not in all of Rouen. It’s quite unusual for a man to move here alone with his son and his nephews.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you implying, good sir?” Grantaire smiles, only with his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just wondering what brings you so far out in the countryside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tension is palpable. Grantaire does not do well with tension. He chuckles, shifting against the doorway to better suit his injury: “That’s an understandable concern. Well, you see, my father thought there was simply too much public unrest in Paris and he decided to get us out of the city before we could get any strange ideas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Occasionally, he has to go back. You see, my sister is to be married soon and, well, you know what they say about young brides…” he laughs, “She did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> want her poor big brother around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh.” nods the officer, visibly more relaxed, “I understand. My sister threw a shoe at me when I tried to advise her on her wedding venue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire laughs heartily: “Oh, she’s a feisty one!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Incredibly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s how little sisters are sometimes.” he shrugs, “Well, if you have any others, remember to stay far away from the wedding preparations next time. Me, I only have one. But I’m not off the hook yet, not until this wedding happens, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer nods sympathetically: “Best of luck to you, M. Fabre.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And to you, Monsieur… uh…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Fournier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“M. Fournier, a pleasure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Likewise.” smiles Fournier, tipping his hat at him and calmly gathering his papers, “A good day to you and your cousins, and best wishes to your sister.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fournier leaves and Grantaire basically collapses against the door as soon as it’s closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that was bloody terrifying.” he mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The police don't bother them again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It seems the only people I give names to here are police officers for some reason.  :,)<br/>Eh<br/>Three cheers for R's improv skills! :D  and one for poor Ferre who keeps doing cameos in this story</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Gabriel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>One December morning, he wakes before the sun does. The floor is cold under his bare feet and the house is completely silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kitchen is very small, and fused with the dining room in its design. There’s not much in there, besides a table with a basket of fruit as a permanent decoration. Absentmindedly, he plucks a yellow apple from it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s so quiet. So quiet. Only the knife makes any noise, a sort of rubbing sound, when it slices through its core. Slice. It’s quiet. Slice. There’s so little light there. Slice. It might as well be night. Slice. Quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t like silence. Silence is for the poets and the drunks who can fill it with song. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence, to him, feels like smoke in his lungs. It makes his thoughts run like a wild river and his thoughts run too fast and he can’t catch up to them and the pressure crushes his lungs. It makes it so hard to breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pain in the side of his hand. There’s pain in his lungs, too, where the smoke invaded them. He remembers the smell of smoke so well. Smoke, gunpowder. A black cloud that envelops and suffocates all who have the misfortune to be around it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s so hard to breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone grabs his arm. He’s too startled to stop them from ripping the knife out of his hand, but that doesn’t mean he can’t react at all. He elbows his attacker in the side. The hit lands. With a grunt of pain, they back off, and- wait. The noise sounds too familiar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your form could use some work, but you’ve got the basics down, I must say.” grumbles Grantaire, setting the knife down on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hit thankfully landed in his good side and seemingly didn’t hurt him all that much, but-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I- I didn’t mean t-” he stutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire’s eyes soften: “Forget that. Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just got a bit startled and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras frowns: “What, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks genuinely surprised to see him reply like that. His eyes travel down to the wrist he’s still holding. Something splashes on the floor near their feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enjolras.” he whispers, “You’re bleeding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is. There’s a deep cut on the side of hand, where the knife slipped and pierced his skin, and the blood, judging by that puddle under his feet, has been flowing for longer than it should have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” he murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire, better late than never, presses the nearest kitchen cloth to his hand: “Honestly, love, do I have to lock the knife drawer now?” he jokes, but he doesn’t look amused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hadn’t noticed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did I not notice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” admits Grantaire, “I think you’ve been a bit scattered lately. It’s like you’re not always here. Where are you, then, when you’re not here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A good question, but not the right one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>where</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” corrects Enjolras, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>When</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s like… I don’t know. It’s like time is running faster and I’m still… here, and it won’t wait for me. You know how an hourglass is still and yet the sand still slips away? That’s how it feels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire nods: “For me, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>where</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives him an interrogative look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s always </span>
  <em>
    <span>where</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” he continues, “In my dreams I’m torn and scattered across so many places, and when I wake up in one piece I don’t know where I am. I think I’m in one place and then I’m not. I think I’m under the sea and I’m on the floor. That's where I usually wake up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's being disarmingly sincere, looking him directly in the eyes, and there's no trace of a lie or a joke whatsoever. That hasn't happened a lot since he sobered up. He is, probably, aware of the transparency of his own eyes and lying means looking away so no one sees what's behind them. Not this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras nods: "Time and space."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Time and space's bloody playthings, more like." grumbles Grantaire, "I wish they would behave like they're supposed to, sometimes, but do they ever?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No…" he sighs, "They don't."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The bastards."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Those don't behave as they should, either."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire chuckles: "I didn't think you were physically capable of jokes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why not?" frowns Enjolras, "I have said plenty of jokes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No offense, love, but I could probably count them on one hand." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't dignify him with a response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire lifts the cloth just a bit: "I think the bleeding stopped but we'll need to clean this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can't believe I didn't notice." he mumbles, more than a little salty. Salt. Salt water would probably help the scarring process. But Grantaire has other ideas, apparently, because he's already hard at work washing the last traces of blood away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up to meet Grantaire’s eyes. They are overwhelmingly concerned. Undeservingly so. Honestly, he should not be worrying about a little cut when his stab wound hasn’t even scarred yet. Not just that, but his limp isn’t any better. It probably won’t get better at all, at this point. If it hasn’t healed by now, then surely, it must’ve damaged </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> beyond repair. Maybe not fatally, but permanently all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His train of thought is interrupted when Grantaire squeezes his hand a little tighter and the pain finally gets him to see his face again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enjolras?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been calling you for at least a minute. Is everything fine? Do you feel dizzy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An entire minute, gone in the blink of an eye. Maybe he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> lost a bit too much blood. Maybe his concern is justified after all. Or maybe his sanity is slipping. He doesn’t know at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does feel a little dizzy, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I should sit down for a while.” he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That doesn’t make Grantaire feel any better: “Enjolras.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> sitting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This really isn’t making him and his mental state look good, but then again he can probably play it off as blood loss and drowsiness. He waves his hand dismissively: “Right. Lie down. I meant lie down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” says Grantaire, looking like he doesn’t believe him for a second. In all fairness, neither would Enjolras. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He helps him to the living room; unnecessary, but kind of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence sits tense between them, more and more every second, like there’s something slowly pulling the string until it snaps and Enjolras asks the smartest question he can think of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it really Gabriel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me?” blinks Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your name. Your given name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” he laughs, “Yes. Gabriel Grantaire. I can’t believe I never told you all my many names.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I assume your name isn’t Apollon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would it be too forward of me to ask you what it is, then?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Much too forward.” he mumbles, “Much too forward. I have three names and I only like one of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three names? Seems quite excessive. I only have two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” groans Enjolras, “So many names are excessive indeed. My given name is Alexandre. I prefer my middle names, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which are?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitates for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Edmond and Nicolas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh. Very good names if you ask me. I imagine you were referring to Nicolas when you said you only liked one of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I did mean that.” he murmurs, “What gave me away?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nike</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>laos</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Victory, people, victory of the people</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It wasn’t difficult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never use any of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. We’re not there, I understand.” laughs Grantaire, “Personally, I think Edmond suits you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truthfully, he isn’t sure what he means by that. He doesn’t quite remember the origin of the name Edmond. He scans Grantaire’s face and finds he is averting his eyes for some reason. Not a very good sign. One thing comes to mind: “You said you had two names?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Grantaire scratches the back of his head, “I did say that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t ask, the other one is embarrassing. Not that you’re going to call me Gabriel, I suppose, but I especially dislike the other one.” he grumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope for your sake that Jehan never hears you imply that you have a name you won’t talk about.” frowns Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire laughs almost too loud, covers his mouth, laughs much more quietly, and averts his eyes: “Oh, no, he uh… he already knows it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not by my choice, but he knows it. If I hear you’ve gone and asked him I will be very cross with you.” he warns, looking both amused and uncomfortable, somehow. He has very strange expressions sometimes. "Anyway…" he coughs, standing up with some difficulty, "I will get some bandages. You stay right there, alright? I don't want you passing out on the floor, that's my thing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras frowns, hoping the </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't be like that</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his eyes comes through to him. It does. Grantaire waves and leaves without insistence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The wound is cleaned and bandaged and deemed an accident, though Grantaire's near constant surveillance suggests that he has the same suspicion about his degrading sanity as he does. Regardless, spending time with Jehan is helping a bit. He still spaces out, he still loses minutes and sometimes hours of time, but when he slips away to the sound of poetry and literary debates his mind doesn't go to the same dark place it used to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> more careful around knives all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>About a week after the incident, just before Jehan goes to bed, he stops to ask him: "Jehan, do you have any knowledge of Old English, by any chance?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A bit." he nods, "Why?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you know what Edmond means?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Edmond?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, um…" Jehan blinks a few times, "I'm a bit rusty, I'm afraid. I believe the original version is Eadmund. Now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ead</span>
  </em>
  <span> means… </span>
  <em>
    <span>prosperity</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I think, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>wealth</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>mund</span>
  </em>
  <span>… oh, yes, I remember. You know, because it's a little ambiguous, people disagree on the meaning of the name. Some say it means </span>
  <em>
    <span>protector of wealth</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I don't like that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No." he shakes his head, "I much prefer </span>
  <em>
    <span>wealthy protector</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>What?? Noooo, I didn't spend two hours searching for names, no- nooo... what are you talking about?  :,)<br/>I have it on good authority that middle names are common in basically all of Europe except Italy lmao, I don't have a middle name  :,)   but these kids probably would.<br/>Don't worry, everyone. R's middle name will be revealed eventually, or I wouldn't have set this up  :)<br/>We have, at this point, begun to transition into the Enj part of this story, ladies and gents. There ya go  :))</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. December 23rd</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Come December, the wedding is set up and Fauchelevent looks more and more anxious every day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spends hours pouring his soul into every letter he sends out to Cosette, leaving the sender's address empty every time. And it's making them all feel so terribly guilty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As unanimously appointed representative of the group, apparently, Enjolras has to be the one to tell him what's on their minds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Go." he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent looks at him like he's gone insane: "Pardon?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Go to Paris." he clarifies, "Even just for a day or two. It's been so long, it would be more suspicious if you never visited your daughter while she's getting ready to be married. I can only assume it must be a difficult time. You may stay there for as long as you'd like. Stay for Christmas. Stay for the New Year. Do what you will."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sincerely hoping his best intentions come across, he extends his hand to the door as an invitation. Fauchelevent's eyes flash with a torrent of different emotions: surprise, joy, doubt and then fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can't!" he exclaims, "Oh, I wouldn't! It isn't safe for any of us. People don't know me well in Paris, but they do know I was never seen with any of you. And the inspector-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Should have been demoted." deadpans Enjolras, "But, even if he hasn't, you can just say we ran off. Say you were our hostage, if you'd like. It won't change much for us. You could even say we're dead, and they will likely thank you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"None of those!" grumbles the old man, "None of those! What would Cosette think of me if I told her I killed you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You don't have to say that." clarifies Enjolras, "There's a million excuses you can give. Grantaire and Jehan were already at risk as it was, you can say they died on the way to Lyon or wherever you want. And me, I could've gone anywhere. Fled, or thrown myself in a river, say what you will. Most of all, if Cosette is the problem, you have my permission to tell her the truth, as long as you are certain she will keep it a secret. I trust your judgement more than mine when it comes to her."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent pauses. He gives the pen in his hand a pensive twirl or two, before leaving the letter, unfinished, on the writing board, and taking his leave to the bedroom and then outside to rent a coach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves for Paris that same afternoon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The house is emptier, but it isn't immediately obvious, with how quiet and unobtrusive Fauchelevent was. Sometimes, when he slips away, he thinks the old man is just in the next room. Though, to his credit, it’s happening less and less since that incident with the knife. It happens less when he’s sitting next to Jehan, who tends to get overexcited and reach for anything and anyone near him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s touch, he figures. It helps keep him a bit more stable. Another human’s touch is the equivalent of an anchor, where the touch of his clothes or the chair or the floor might as well be nothing, because humans </span>
  <em>
    <span>move</span>
  </em>
  <span>, always, whether they mean to or not. That grip is never still and never pulls him away into the ocean of his thoughts. Rather, it keeps him stubbornly stuck to reality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire, true to his word, has not called him by any of his given names, and he has not called him Gabriel or asked Jehan what his middle name is. It’s a fair deal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two weeks slip by with only one single letter by Fauchelevent, explaining that he has been persuaded to stay with Cosette a little longer, but hasn’t told her about them. None of them are sure how to feel about it. The only unequivocally good news that comes from the letter is that Marius has nearly made a full recovery and is, at least, healthy enough to make regular trips around the city. There is a bit of bad news in the overwhelming sadness he’s said to be possessed by. Most people, though, have chalked it up to a combination of human sensitivity over the events of the barricade, his injury and his anxiety over the upcoming marriage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he was never known to be a revolutionary, they declare, and clear him of all guilt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In Rouen, the days tick slowly by and the villagers are familiar enough with them that they’ve stopped questioning their presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All but one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Fournier didn’t give them any trouble whatsoever, a fellow officer wasn’t quite as convinced. December 23rd comes and Grantaire returns from the market in his usual fashion, which is to say by opening the door wide and letting in the Snow Queen and her entire entourage of snowflakes and causing poor Jehan, curled up by the window, to chatter his teeth in protest. Grantaire sets down the basket with little grace and lets out a barking laugh, slamming the door closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras, currently nestled between the closet and the window, raises one eyebrow at him and hopes his displeasure comes across.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It does, it always does, but Grantaire recovers quickly: “You will never guess this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan, promptly forgiving him for the cold, abandons his pen to go help him with the basket: “What happened?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember Fournier?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The census officer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Grantaire drags the </span>
  <em>
    <span>s</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “I keep running into him. I believe he’s taken a liking to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras shoots him a dubious glance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t look at me like that. I also ran into that Bauduin guy, you know, the upgraded version of inspector Javert, but from Rouen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, and he was very rude, I’ll say.” he frowns, “Asking so many questions about us and Fauchelevent and why he isn’t here for Christmas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?” Jehan gestures nervously to </span>
  <em>
    <span>continue</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Fournier, darling man, told him to knock it off!” laughs Grantaire, “I made an excuse, of course, but that was lovely on his part.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” smiles Jehan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras quirks his brow: “What excuse did you make?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said it was family tradition for parents in our family to spend Christmas with the fiancé’s family when one of their children is to be married.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence falls over the three of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire, who does not do well with silence, immediately fills it with another barking laugh: “And they bought it! After a charming little chat, of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grantaire!” gasps Jehan, “Look at you! Charming an officer of the law!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I’m making progress.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh.” mumbles Enjolras, “It could work to keep them off our trail, but it’s risky. If you shy away from conversation too much, it will be suspicious, if you get too close, it will also be suspicious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be very careful.” he promises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an accidental strategy, but it could work, provided that Bauduin leaves them alone. Which, if his venomous stares and excessive questions are any indication, he will not; Enjolras, though, is past the point of caring for the officers’ safety, way past that point. They all know it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t feel like celebrating anything at all, in all honesty. But, alas, Jehan will take any opportunity to celebrate and keep his mind off the dead trees above the earth and the dead bodies lying just under, so what can he do? It was a lie to think he wouldn’t deny his friends anything in the first few weeks after the barricade. It’s been six months and he still can’t say no to Jehan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the night of December 24th, they finally hold a wake.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So uh<br/>I would get the tissues ready for the next few chapters if I were you.<br/>Meanwhile though THANK YOU R for your amazing improv skills and "befriending an officer" skills. Let's hope M. Bauduin doesn't give them too much trouble  :)</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. The Mist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Snow has piled up to cover the smaller bushes in the garden almost entirely. As the sun sets, Jehan turns on more candles than any fireman would allow and Enjolras only objects until he actually counts them. Jehan has placed them in a circle around the table and removed all the chairs except their own. A strangely abundant dinner sits in the middle. Too much even for three people on Christmas Eve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire questions it. Jehan smiles sadly: “Leave some for them.” he says, and neither of them question him anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So…” starts Jehan, clearing his throat, “I have decided not to sleep tonight. I… I know Christmas usually isn’t the right time, but… we never held a funeral. Or a wake. You are not obligated to do this with me, I just thought-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here’s to them.” murmurs Grantaire, taking a seat. He was clearly beginning to reach his limit after walking around restlessly for an hour. Which means he’s unlikely to stand again for the rest of the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan smiles at him: “Are you sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras realizes about five seconds too late that their eyes are fixed on him and very, very concerned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me as well.” he nods, and they calm down a bit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Welcome.” starts Jehan, “And thank you for coming to this…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Memorial.” suggests Grantaire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Yes, memorial. Thank you, R. As I was saying, thank you for coming. I thought we could… I don’t know…” he mumbles, “I didn’t plan this out very well. I didn’t think you would…” he trails off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras and Grantaire exchange a strange look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t think we’d want to be here?” completes Enjolras, “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan shrugs, visibly deflating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” sighs Grantaire, “We’re here now. You need some help, love?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t wait for an answer. He reaches forward to pick a candle off the table and Jehan flinches: “Ah! R, those are-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go first.” he interrupts, but he holds the candle with a rare gentleness, just close enough to himself to feel its warmth, and just far enough away that he doesn’t risk blowing it out, “Well… I’m not entirely sure. I did not think this through. But we all know I’m an excellent improviser, so here I go. So, Bossuet-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like being stabbed in the back. Enjolras fails to realise how tense that one single word has made him until he feels the edge of the chair digging into his back, which has curved the wrong way. Grantaire’s eyes are once again fixed on him: “You alright, love?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods stiffly: “Go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Like I said. Once, in November I think… it was bloody cold…” he mumbles, “Anyway, I wasn’t feeling good. At all. In fact, I was pretty damn miserable. Bitter. You know, one of those days. And good Lesgle wasn’t having it. No, he called me to supper and he let me ramble on and on about how much I hated this life and the next until I didn’t feel like I’d rather not exist anymore. And I don’t think…” his eyes grow a bit distant, “I don’t think I’ve thanked him enough for that. So, here’s to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises one arm, awkwardly, still cradling the candle with the other: “Uh… I don’t have a glass. Drink with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both look to Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One glass.” he concedes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan pours out a drink for everyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They take the first sip in complete silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire, once again, proves that he doesn’t do well with silence: “Are you going to make me do </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>the eulogies?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan almost flinches: “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems to soften: “I was joking, Jehan. You don’t have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go.” he repeats, glaring back at Grantaire with a certain determination. Grantaire knows when to back off and remains silent as he holds a different candle into his hands, a bit further than Grantaire did, presumably to avoid the frills on the front of his shirt catching fire. They did not agree to dress in black. It just happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire look so odd in black.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll… I’ll start with…” Jehan loses traction nearly as soon as he begins, lost in a sea of memories and possibilities, and in his eyes swim rivers of names, stories, verses both his own and others’. He lowers his eyes: “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take your time.” says Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras just nods, absent-mindedly. He begins to feel himself slip again. He’s somewhat conscious of it, but he can do nothing about it. He never can. By the time he realizes it, there’s already something very strong pulling him under, whispering </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleep</span>
  </em>
  <span> into his ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Come to me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, says the silent voice of nothing, and some part of him obeys without question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Grantaire thankfully notices and gives him the tiniest slap on the shoulder to wake him, he catches the tail end of Jehan’s speech.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was so strange and so kind, I think, to give his verses. I don’t know many people who would so freely share the contents of their heart with a stranger. I didn’t even know him at the time. I will thank Feuilly for that kindness for the rest of my life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises his glass. Grantaire and Enjolras follow suit, and there goes a second sip of wine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one says anything, but Enjolras can sense the expectation hanging above him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches for a third candle. The other two have been set on the ground beside their respective chairs. He holds it out and stares into the dancing flame. Dancing. It makes him think of someone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to say something about Joly.” he decides, "Who would be on our case right now for having this many lit candles in such a small space." he adds, quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire holds back a laugh: "Sorry. Go on."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras hesitates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was ill once. Nothing serious, at all, merely a common cold from walking in the rain. And… well, a few others scolded me, but Jolllly… he was outright panicked."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, taking good care not to think so much that he could drown in them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was annoyed, just a little." he admits, "I didn't know him very well at the time. We'd only spoken a few words to each other, but I think he was rather fond of me regardless. When I asked him why he wouldn't leave me alone, he said it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>because he could not rest until he knew me to be safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And he broke down, a little, said that illness was such a close reality for him that he could look at someone and picture them on their deathbed in gruesome details. I didn’t protest again, I think."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes another second. Before he starts speaking again, his glass is raised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, here's to him. I pray his nightmares can't reach him now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know they can’t.” murmurs Jehan as they take another sip. No one addresses it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” sighs Grantaire, “My turn. Did you know Bahorel liked to draw sometimes? I didn’t. He stole my papers once and I found little sketches at the corners of the page. Caricatures, mostly. I had a good laugh, I’ll say. Then I flipped a few pages and it got worse. Bloody, somehow. I realised then that he was never over 1822 and…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...and the madman went and did it again anyway. He was braver than I could </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> be and all I could do about it was take him to dinner. So, aside from the usual thank you, aside from </span>
  <em>
    <span>let’s drink to him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I wish I could say </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry </span>
  </em>
  <span>to him. Sorry I didn’t do more. All of you, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“R-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, let me finish.” he raises his hand to stop them, “Let me, I need to say this. I am so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>honestly</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry that you all were pulling my weight the whole time. I’m sorry it’s me here, and not-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>R</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!" cries Jehan, "God, no, what are you saying?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire seems to snap out of whatever dark mist was beginning to swallow him: "Nothing. I wasn't… I wasn't saying anything, just… I feel like it could've gone better for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't shout, Jehan, it doesn't suit you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras can almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> the mist swirling back and ready to bury him alive. It's dark and dense and he knows no one could ever be able to breathe in it; Grantaire already can't breathe on his own at night. And yet, for how much he wants to pull him out of it, he has no idea how.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mist swirls. Grantaire laughs without a single trace of joy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's alright, Jehan! I was just rambling. You know me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>meant</span>
  </em>
  <span> it!" frowns Jehan, "Grantaire, my friend, I don't think I can properly put into words how impossibly happy I am that you're here with us. And words, dare I say, are perhaps the only field I excel in!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, hush, you. If pretty words were your only virtue, my friend, I wouldn’t call you that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras feels something tug painfully at his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both of you, stop!” he commands, and silence falls immediately. He sighs heavily: “I think… I think we all could use a break. We have all night. I’ll- I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands before he even realises it: “I’m sorry. I’m…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not sure how he ended up in the kitchen, but he’s sure he can’t go back just yet. The table feels cold under his fingers. Everything feels cold now that he’s moved away from the candles in the living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the darkness, he can’t see the mist anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he can feel it just fine.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello my dears  :,)<br/>I apologise for the late update, as you may have seen, I was working on a big collab (I wrote 50+ pages in a week oof)  and I wanted to wait until I was done with that to post it. <br/>Hope the feels make up for it  :,)</p><p>I WAS going to talk about all the Amis in one go but that was just too much and someone was bound to have a breakdown here.<br/>See you all next chapter and take care  &lt;3</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. The Siren</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s so cold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s all he can feel. Cold. Under his fingers, yes, but mainly inside his bones, the kind of cold he can't shield himself against. The kind of feverish cold that comes from within and that curling up under a blanket does nothing for. His shoulders tremble, only briefly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's so tired.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again, not the kind of tired that can be solved by sleeping, though admittedly he has had trouble with that as well. This, though, is the kind of tired that makes him slip away into another world until he's completely unaware of what his body is doing. It's not fair. He doesn't perform any of the actions his body might take while he's away, and yet he has to suffer the consequences. Like that cut on his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The knife, the same knife, though it has obviously been cleaned, still lies on the table before him from when Jehan used it to cut vegetables. Enjolras's fingers move to grab it by the handle before he can think. He stares intently into the blade. It has been cleaned to near perfection, safe for one tiny little spot near the handle, where he can still see what looks like dried blood if he looks closely. He catches the reflection of his eyes in the silver. They are strangely mesmerising for something that should be so familiar to him, like stormy skies locked in two little spheres. He vaguely remembers someone told him that that part of the eye isn't a sphere, actually, it's more like a cone. Was it Joly? Ferre? It could've been either really.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wouldn't know. His memories swirl together, dense and warm and horrifying like a river of blood. His reflection is nothing but a painting to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels the hand on his shoulder like a bolt of lightning. Enjolras stands, whirling around as fast as he can, aiming to pin his attacker against the wall. He becomes aware a moment too late of the knife still in his grip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In fact, he feels it just in time to stop the tip from piercing Jehan's skin. He hesitates, though, he freezes looking at his friend's panicked face, and the tension breaks. The knife makes the tiniest little cut where his neck meets his jaw and there's the new red again, not the blood of angry men, but the blood of the innocent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was always blood of the innocent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's that tiny drop, falling into an enormous lake, that finally creates the first crack in that dam that has been waiting to break for so long; the crack spreads, thin lines, like a spider's web, cover the dam in seconds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When it finally breaks, it’s like every drop of his blood has burst out of his veins and drained away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The knife falls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras staggers back until his leg hits the chair he was sitting on. His eyes remain fixed on that single droplet of blood on Jehan’s neck, flowing like a river in his mind, drowning them all in a sea of red. Blood is all he can see. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t fall, crash, scream, or even speak. His voice is frozen in his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jehan slumps a little against the wall: “Ah… you… sorry I scared you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He frowns when he sees him back off: “Enjolras?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras still doesn’t answer him. His eyes are fixed on the blade and on his distorted reflection within it. There is the problem, he thinks, over and over, the problem is him, the problem was always him, right from the start, right from when he charmed so many people into running to their deaths; not like a leader, but like a siren. A charming young man who was capable of being terrible, indeed, but a siren and nothing more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every one of those traits praised by the women of Paris distorts in his eyes into something monstrous and deadly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to scream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has no voice. His voice is nothing but an instrument of destruction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enjolras?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jehan’s voice cracks a little.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s going on?” shouts Grantaire from the next room. He’ll barge in any moment if he thinks something is wrong. To be fair to him, it is. There’s already the scraping of a chair against the floor of the living room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras doesn’t want him to come in. He would like Jehan to leave, too, and never come back. At the same time, he wants him to stay. But that’s selfish. That will bring nothing good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t notice Jehan got closer until he tries to reach out for his shoulders. There’s one single thought in his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t touch me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras reels back, nearly falling over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t touch me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He goes as far back as he can go. His mind screams, but his voice remains silent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jehan takes one tentative step forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t get close</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire pokes his head in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t touch me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, what’s wrong?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know!” cries Jehan, “He accidentally attacked me and it frightened him, I think. Enjolras?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He calls out again. Enjolras doesn’t speak. There’s a deadly poison in his lungs and he won’t let it spill out. Grantaire has a different idea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You alright, love?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice is gentle, but his eyes conceal a certain rage. Who is it for? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire takes a tentative step forward: “Easy, easy. Can you speak to me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re pale. Can you sit down?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Look who’s talking</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I help you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Leave</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enjolras, look at me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Leave me alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enjolras?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Leave me alone!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't realise he shouted until Grantaire winces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The poison spilled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shuts his mouth, but it's too late; it's out there now, the poison that killed the brothers and sisters of the barricade. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything he says is poison.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's so evident in the way Grantaire froze the moment he spoke up, the way Jehan took a half step back when he shouted: poison, all of it, and they're breathing it in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Grantaire doesn't give up immediately: "I don't know that I can leave you alone, love. I'm sorry. Last time I did, you nearly cut your hand open."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sounds so disarmingly sincere. Like he would genuinely be more than happy to do whatever Enjolras says if only he hadn't caught him in that strange moment of involuntary self-destruction. Like he's used to being told to leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras still refuses to speak. Not because he has no words. The words are there, alright: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>go back to the living room</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't talk to me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and so many more. But the sudden awareness of the power of his voice is eating him alive.</span>
</p>
<p><span>He'd much rather let the poison corrode him from the inside out than let it spill out and cause them any more damage, but </span><em><span>they are</span></em> <em><span>not leaving</span></em><span>, damn it. In fact, Jehan seems to have gathered the courage to take a few steps forward and now stands behind Grantaire, who holds his hand out like he's trying to calm a frightened animal. It's both heartwarming and demeaning, somehow.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>"Enjolras?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There he goes again, and Enjolras is </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> that he's trying to get him to look him in the eyes, because Grantaire's eyes scream even when he whispers. But he can't do that. Because he knows, now, that his voice is poison, his touch is a blade, and his eyes are a hurricane. Everything is deadly now. His hair is the rope of the gallows and his hand has enough force to replace a firing squad.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, when Grantaire reaches for it, for a moment he believes that the man's hand will be blown off his wrist like that Éponine girl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn't.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moment their fingers brush, the sparks of the rifles die. For a moment, he has another thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It's alright</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In hindsight, he realises after he pulls his hand away, it's probably because every time their hands have touched it's been when one or both of them was in danger or distress. It's an automatic signal that says </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't worry, I'm here with you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire thankfully takes it seriously when he pulls away, but he doesn’t leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” he asks, once again, “Is this about Jehan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine!” Jehan chimes in, frantically, “It’s not- It’s fine, Enjolras.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See?” smiles Grantaire, “See, it could’ve been worse. But it wasn’t. Now we all know to be careful. Right? So…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sounds so anxious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...so can you tell us what’s wrong?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finds the strength to shake his head a little. No, he can’t. In fact, he doesn’t really feel like telling them anything. But they aren't going to leave him alone until he does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning his head as far away from them as he can manage, he mumbles: "Go away. Please."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, like I said…" Grantaire chuckles nervously, though he's visibly less tense than before, "I'm not sure you should be left alone right now. Believe me, I know."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras can’t answer him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can only try to explain himself: "I don't think you should be near me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire looks inordinately happy to receive an answer for some reason: "Alright. Alright. Why is that?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm not moving from here until I get an answer, love."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That is a promise he's going to keep and they both know it. Enjolras has no choice but to say what's on his mind now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why is it…" he starts, his voice so low that he may as well have been screaming for hours, "...that, whenever something happens to you, it's because I'm around?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were clearly not expecting that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jehan goes pale, but Grantaire presses on: "That's not true. Why do you think that?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras glares at him and regrets it immediately when his face tightens. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why is it that every one of you has been harmed on my watch?" he continues, softer than before, "Why is it that I've failed every single person that has made the mistake of putting their trust in me?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why is it that whenever I wash my hands I feel your blood on them? Why is it that every time Jehan coughs I feel as if it were my hands around his neck? Why is it that I feel smoke in my lungs even when I'm outside in the snow?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The voice keeps rising and the poison keeps spilling, but he can't stop it anymore: "Why is it that I can't recall a single time I've helped someone?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The voice cracks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The spell breaks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire is closer than he was before. When did he get so close?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enjolras, will you listen to me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a fair question, it’s good, he’s not doing anything wrong, but why won’t he </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He’s spiralling, isn’t he? Listen, listen, can he do anything but listen? Can he do anything at all? Can he listen before the void starts to creep up the edge of his sanity again?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Probably not.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire, though, doesn't wait for an answer: "Listen to me, alright? Nothing happened. We're safe. We're all safe. You helped both of us, remember? If you hadn't been there when I was stabbed, I wouldn't be here."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No." Enjolras grits his teeth, "If I hadn't been there, you wouldn't have been stabbed in the first place. That's the difference. Why don't you see it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Because it's not there!" scoffs Grantaire, "There </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>no difference. It went the way it went and honestly, it's a miracle someone waited that long to stab me. God knows I would've done it years ago if I'd had to put up with me for as long as you did!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras feels his spine tremble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, let me speak. I don't know what possessed you to think you, as a person, individually, have brought </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> bad into my godforsaken life, Enjolras, but whatever it is, I'm going to exorcise it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's almost shouting now. Why?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts his hand forward, just far enough away to avoid touching him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Listen to me." he says, quietly, "Do you know how talking to you felt?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Where is he going with this?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire's expression softens: "It was like realising I'd been raised in a room without doors, or windows, or light. It was like the roof collapsing and the sun pouring in all of a sudden. And finding so many things I never could've noticed without light. Like colours, and patterns, and the sky beyond the walls. Don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> think I'm not grateful to you and Les Amis for that. Maybe the roof collapsed, maybe it hurt, maybe it splintered, but wouldn't you rather die knowing the light than living in darkness your whole life? Isn't that the point? Isn't that what you were trying to do?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't know how to answer. This kind of sincerity is rare coming from Grantaire, this kind of purity is seldom seen, and he doesn't know how to handle it. He finds his eyes travelling around the room. To the floor, and the knife, and his distorted reflection within it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire notices.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If you're worried something like this could happen again, I'll keep an eye on you." he promises, "But honestly, Enjolras, I don't think you should be left alone now. I think that's the worst thing we could do. So I won't leave you no matter what you say or do. That's what I've always done anyway." he adds, under his breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he doesn't receive an answer, he straightens out and offers his hand again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Alright?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's taken his hand before he even notices. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets go immediately, but a deal is a deal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Alright." sighs Grantaire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts the knife away where Enjolras can't see it, accompanies them both back to the living room, and collapses into his chair with a heavy, pained sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Now, where were we?"</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A bit late, but here it is, lads.<br/>This breakdown was so very hard to put into words. Originally, he was going to cry, but then that started feeling out of character as I was writing.<br/>Enjolras is an angry character rather than a sad character. Even if that anger is directed at himself, it's still anger.</p>
<p>Anyway, sorry for getting philosophical there.<br/>See you all next chapter  :,)</p>
<p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Memento Mori, Memento Vivi</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There’s silence for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the sole exception of the sudden, quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a defective candle wick, making Enjolras flinch and Grantaire burst out in a bitter laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright!” he smiles, reaching for the crackling candle, “Someone is eager. Alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing the lost look on his friends’ faces, he lets his gaze fall to the floor: “Sorry. For a moment, there, I heard little Gavroche.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all pretend their heart hasn’t sunk to the floor as he begins his speech: “I have too much to say about the kid. I don’t know where to start, exactly. I could tell you about the first time I met him and he stole some coins I had on me. He always believed I didn’t know it was him, but… I did. I knew from day one. He was so proud of himself, I simply couldn’t tell him. He lied to me and I lied to him, and that may have been the only lie in my life I don’t regret. Well, there were two, actually.” he corrects himself, sneaking a single glance at Enjolras that tells him all he needs to know, “But that doesn’t matter right now. Did you know he had siblings? Four of them, and only two living with their parents. Rotten people, those two, or so I heard. It seems hard to believe they could have bred such brave little creatures as him and his sister. Oh, yes, did you know? That Éponine girl, from the barricade, she was his sister. I never talked to her. Saw her around, here and there, with their other sister. Wait, maybe we did talk once. I don’t remember. I may have been drunk. Little Gavroche told me once that on one of his visits he asked her to dance. She laughed, he said, and told him she didn’t have the time. Either way, I know Marius owes her his life and...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Marius owes a lot of people.” he concludes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh.” is Enjolras’s only comment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, I grieve their loss, but I couldn’t be happier that they’re g…” he freezes and backtracks immediately, “...that they’re away, together. Hopefully they get to have that dance now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The candle pops again as soon as he’s done talking. Grantaire, the only one who wasn’t startled, smiles at it, both bitterly and tenderly: “Was that good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one gives him an answer, but he doesn’t need it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes completely silent after that, and Enjolras is strangely the first to gather his wits and hold another candle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to say a word about Papa Mabeuf.” he starts, averting his eyes so no one can see what festers behind them, “Someone I wish I had talked to sooner than I did. I'd hoped, against all hope, that he would survive the barricade when he carried the flag. The flag fell and so did he and I don't think I ever told him how strongly I admired him. I wish I could have. I respect him. I hope he's at peace, far from the smoke of the barricade."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another sip of wine and the eulogies continue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Courfeyrac often spoke of pretty women." Jehan begins, "He talked about them, and about every little thing, and he had a name for every pretty stranger. Miette, Gentille, La Jaune, and many such nicknames. I don't know how he did it. Within five minutes of meeting someone, he had a name for them. He explained some of them. Miette was very short and when he saw her in the square birds were flocking around her. Gentille had a lovely smile, he said, and she gave him directions to an inn when he first arrived on that side of Paris. La Jaune had a yellow dress. And I heard him speak with Marius about a Mademoiselle Lanoire and a Monsieur Leblanc, and I think now that I know them, I could recognise them as M. Fauchelevent and his daughter. He never explained those ones to me. But I digress. Courfeyrac was so very creative and so very grounded at the same time. I don't know how he did it. If I'm a boat drifting in the ocean, he's an eagle who flies but always lands. I admired him for that. I…" he hesitates, "I wrote about him, once or twice, and I never told him. I was too shy to show him what I'd written. I regret it now. I think he would've liked it. But I didn't… I didn't know how little time I had. I kept telling myself </span>
  <em>
    <span>some other time</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>later</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe next time</span>
  </em>
  <span> until there couldn't be a next time anymore. I'll read them to him tomorrow morning, and hope he's listening."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, he's going to love it." smiles Grantaire, sadly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras nods. He knows what comes next. He isn't looking forward to it. But it has to be him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cradling the last candle to his chest, he murmurs: "I've been seeing Combeferre in my dreams."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's something he didn't plan to admit so soon, but he finds the other two aren't as surprised as he thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he continues, the tiniest bit louder: "I asked him once if he was real. He didn't answer. I asked him again the next night. He said </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm only as real as you are</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Now he doesn't answer the question anymore. We talk a lot, though, before I can even realise I'm dreaming. We speak of politics and science and people, just like we did before. Nothing is different, but there's always </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> wrong. I can't always recognise what it is. Sometimes it's a flash of fire. Sometimes his glasses are cracked. Sometimes his shirt is stained and sometimes the wall of the Musain has eight holes in it. Eight, for some reason it's always eight. Right where…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trails off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nevermind that." he shakes his head, "The point is, Ferre hasn't quite left me. But I've found that I don't really want him to. It's better than it was before, when I didn’t dream at all. It's better than not talking to him ever again. It's just… better."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes quieter and quieter as he speaks, until the last words become nothing more than whispers. He doesn't look up to meet his friends' eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he did, he might see what's on their mind now, and he doesn't want that. He just wants to get this over with and go back to his strange hallucinations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or whatever Combeferre was trying to get across.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I understand." mumbles Grantaire, scratching the back of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't explain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't really need to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And lastly…" Enjolras presses on, maybe a bit too eager to change the subject, "...there were so many more, killed and injured at the barricade. I could not count them and I did not know their names, but they are no less sacred to me than my closest friends. And I owe them just as much."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last raise of their glasses concludes the eulogies. The last sip of wine ends their hesitations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire's cheeks are just a little flushed. He chuckles: "Courfeyrac would kill us. Christmas Eve, and we're holding a wake for him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sets his glass down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don't exactly make merry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if they drink a few more sips and share a few more stories and sing one or two songs, well, who could blame them?</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The end of the wake, lads.<br/>I will say that I finished writing this chapter in the little phone time I have today (I am on a heart monitor but don't worry, it's only for a certificate and I'm fine  :,) ) since radiation apparently messes with electrodes.</p><p>This chapter was relatively chill  :)  enjoy that</p><p>See you next time, darlings  &lt;3<br/>-Rémy</p><p>Edit: Unfortunately, I just received news that my grandmother isn't doing well. Today or tomorrow may be the end for her. If I disappear you'll know why. I hope to see you all soon.</p><p>Second edit: This being said, if anyone has thoughts about this chapter and all those who follow to share, I do still encourage sharing them with me. It makes me very happy to read what you all think and what struck you most in this story. It may take me some time to answer but I guarantee I will read them as soon as I see them.</p><p>Sorry, no more edits now.<br/>See you, darlings. Have a lovely day until we talk again.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. January</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for all your kind comments  &lt;3<br/>you are lovely, lovely people and I'm glad you found my little corner of the internet and decided to stay for tea. <br/>I love you all.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jehan's very abundant dinner has unfortunately drained their supplies somewhat, and in January they're finally forced to go out again. The good news is that they've gone to the market before. The bad news is that, actually, only Grantaire has, and he woke up feeling a little under the weather.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it's not a problem, he swears, he's fine, he says, as he stumbles his way through several layers of clothes to help him trudge through the snow all the way to the village.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Neither Enjolras, nor Jehan, are willing to buy it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that's how Enjolras ends up leaving the house with him, for the first time in months. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jehan stays behind, by his own request. He looks nervous, yet somewhat determined, so he can probably handle it. It doesn't make Enjolras feel any less anxious, but then again nothing does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't talk a lot on the way there, unlike Grantaire, who seems uncharacteristically talkative this morning. By now, though, he knows him well enough to recognise that him talking so much is usually a sign of anxiety, so he doesn’t bring it up to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he just nods along, closing his coat as tight as he can. He’s not really cold, per se. His clothes are heavy enough to shield him from the cold air outside; it’s not windy and it’s not snowing at the moment, though they’re walking through a thick layer of snow from last night. It crunches beneath their feet, only reaching their calves at its highest. Enjolras isn’t cold. But, going outside for the first time, he does feel terribly exposed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls his coat tighter still and watches Grantaire’s jolly step grow slower.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When they reach the market, the uptown market, so clean and pretty, and so crowded, Enjolras has to wonder why it never occurred to him until this exact moment that walking through a city again will mean walking through crowds. Big crowds. Dozens of people pressing against their sides, with their looks and their voices and their overwhelming presence all around him, and he will have to avoid drawing attention to himself this time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's almost inconceivable for him, walking around in broad daylight and trying not to be noticed. People </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> notice him. They always do. Girls giggle and women sneak glances at his graceful figure and men tip their hats and little boys blow raspberry, because that's how it goes. That's what people do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes the lead almost as soon as they arrive in the crowded main street. He's not going to hide behind Grantaire. He's also not especially keen on looking at him until they've done what they need to do and he can bring him back home, because there is so clearly something wrong with him this morning. Last time Enjolras looked at him, he didn't look like he was going to keel over, but he wasn't smiling as much as before either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he walks ahead of him, only sparing a few glances back when he can stand to look away from the stream of people in front of him long enough to check that he's still there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His heart stops every time someone looks directly at him. No matter how innocent the looks may be, it's attention he does not want. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Searching the crowd ahead, his eyes meet the stormy grey eyes of a little girl walking ahead of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She gives a polite nod and returns her attention to the young woman next to her, similar enough to her to be a relative, much too young to be her mother, but young enough to be her big sister. He’s not sure why, but he finds himself staring at the pair as they exchange a few words and disappear and reappear within the crowd. The elder sister stops to browse the contents of what appears to be a textile shop and the younger leans against her side, shivering from the cold, tugging at her sleeve until she relents and lifts her cream white cape so the little girl can hide underneath it, though a few strands of her corn blonde curls still stick out from the side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For some reason, such a simple display of trust and playful affection now feels strange to him. Not that he’s never wanted siblings before. He remembers watching other children fight with their siblings and being inexplicably jealous when he was about the little girl's age. He was never sure why the fights attracted him so much. It's a bit clearer now that he wasn't looking only at the fights when he envied them. He was looking at the rare smiles, the quiet conversations, the nicknames, every good moment that siblings can share. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter now. He tears his eyes away from the sisters and reminds himself that they're here for a reason and then they can go back home and be safe from all the looks again. But, unconsciously following the two girls, he forgot something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as he realises when he turns back to find that he's been walking alone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The hardest thing about looking for Grantaire is trying to do so without flying into a complete panic and causing a scene. The other difficult thing is calling him </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gabriel</span>
  </em>
  <span> when his mind always instinctively goes back to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Grantaire</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He tries to make it look as casual as possible, but it's so obvious in his fast step and the way his neck cranes stiffly left and right that he's beginning to panic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yes, Grantaire probably just stopped at a shop. But what if he didn't?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What if he walked ahead and Enjolras is going in the wrong direction?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What if he's in pain from his wound acting up and he had to stop?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As scary as that one is, it pales in comparison to the other, wildly unrealistic scenarios playing in his head. The ones he won’t let himself think about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Just keep searching</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes him five minutes to reach the very edge of his patience. He's beginning to panic in the most uncontrollable way. The edges of his vision are blacking out, leaving only a tunnel ahead of him and not much more. He hopes it doesn't show on his face too much, but it does, he knows it does, and it's driving him insane.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don't make a scene</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A tug on his coat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He almost jumps. Thankfully, the arm that instinctively shot out to get his aggressor off swings much too high to hit the child. The same child he was looking at earlier. Now that he's noticed her, he also notices the young woman standing a few feet away from them with an interrogative look on her face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The child tugs again to get his attention. Wordlessly, she points at the side road Enjolras passed not twenty seconds ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, he knows what she's trying to tell him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thank you." he murmurs, pulling away from the little girl and giving her sister a polite bow of his head. He can feel their eyes on his back as he goes. He can only assume the amused and somewhat flustered giggle he hears after is from the elder sister. Let her stare. He has bigger issues to deal with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows something is wrong the moment he enters what he had mistaken for a side road. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's not going anywhere and there's no one there. Nothing much, either, safe for a sign that warns of a dead end ahead, after the turn of the corner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His heart is racing madly, until he hears voices and it slows to a grinding halt in his chest so quickly that it nearly punches the air out of his lungs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who are you, really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That voice is not familiar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A guy you picked off the street for no apparent reason.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That one is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As is the grunt of pain that comes after.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello everyone, I might be back  :,)<br/>I've taken some time for myself but alas, me time in my case implies a creative boom and so here I am. Being a Fool  :,)<br/>sorry to leave you all on another cliffhanger, the chapter was getting way too long  :)  but not to worry! I'll see you soon<br/>I'm back babey  :D</p>
<p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. The Quiet Fury</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Maybe they say something after that, maybe they don't, but Enjolras wouldn't know. He can only hear the pounding of his heart as he sprints to the corner and rounds it so fast he nearly slips on the frozen snow of the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does find Grantaire, just as his instinct told him when the little girl pointed to that street, but he's not alone. He seems to be backed against the wall, though the way he's leaning against it could simply be from exhaustion. No, what's truly worrying is that the inspector standing in front of him is the one who's holding him there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras isn't sure what happens. One moment, he's just beyond the corner, looking at the alarming scene before him; the next, he's a foot away from them and his arms are stretched forward in the empty space between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shoves them apart without even thinking about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are many things he wants to say; most of all, </span>
  <em>
    <span>get away from him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Instead, he has just enough self control to settle for a much less suspicious: “What is happening here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire looks both relieved and frightened by his sudden appearance. The inspector doesn’t look much of anything, really; his face remains much too infuriatingly plain and impassive for someone who had a near stranger by the throat a moment ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah." is his only comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire takes a moment to settle against the wall in a more stable position: "It… well, the inspector here seems to have some frankly outlandish concerns about my </span>
  <em>
    <span>true identity</span>
  </em>
  <span>." he explains, monotonously, "As I was just trying to tell him, the people they're looking for wouldn't be stupid enough to be seen in public knowing the national guard is after them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras knows he has to strike a balance between playing dumb and being entirely ignorant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The people they're looking for?" he repeats, meeting the officer's eyes for a moment, "Who, exactly? Criminals?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inspector (Bauduin?) stares him up and down. "Traitors to our nation, sir." he replies, seemingly deciding that he's not a threat, "With suspiciously similar descriptions to yourself and your </span>
  <em>
    <span>relatives</span>
  </em>
  <span> here in Rouen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way he says </span>
  <em>
    <span>relatives</span>
  </em>
  <span> implies that he does not believe their cover for a moment. Enjolras elects to ignore it: "That is ridiculous. What are these descriptions you speak of? There are many people who share our traits."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not yours." Bauduin points out and, for the first time, a smile grows on his lips. It's even worse than that impassive face he had before. "You, sir…" he continues with a heavy sigh, "...are rather similar in appearance to the leader of that rebellion, or so I'm told."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Play up the offended gentleman façade</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So you're going to accuse me of treason based on a description, provided by someone many miles away, and not yourself?" he scoffs, "You seem much too eager to accuse us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, a flash of doubt bolts behind Baduin's eyes at that observation. Yes, the reward for him could be great, but so would be the risk if he guessed wrong. Hopefully, he isn't willing to take that risk. His face softens a bit: "Of course, sir. I was not accusing you. It was an observation, that's all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's surprising how quickly he backed away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras keeps up the act: "And if </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> am the one who looks so much like him, what possessed you to approach my cousin in such a manner? He takes after the other side of the family, I'm afraid." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what of his injury?” the inspector asks, almost timidly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does not like the implications of that question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A surgery.” he answers, curtly, “A painful one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m very sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's… that's quite enough." mumbles Grantaire, but Baduin apparently doesn't hear him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please pardon my abhorrent behaviour, gentlemen. I'm afraid these rebels have got me on edge." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bows his head politely, so clearly trying to tuck his tail between his legs before Enjolras can get too angry and start an outcry. It's a bit late for at least one of those things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> angry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Furious, in fact, as testified by his shaky grip on Grantaire's arm to help keep him upright and as far from Bauduin as possible. But he knows now is the time to let the inspector go. Anger won't help him now if he pushes it too far; it might make him more suspicious instead of scaring him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras straightens out and gives the inspector a cold, but brief, glare: "I do hope you will approach us more civilly next time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Certainly." nods Bauduin, bowing his head once again and even removing his hat, "My deepest apologies. I did not mean to frighten you, gentlemen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure seemed like it." mumbles Grantaire, thankfully ignored once more by the inspector.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This won't happen again, I trust?" Enjolras crosses his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course not, sir."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nor will you harass my brother and my uncle?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I would never."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I will hold you to these words, inspector." he warns, and he means it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bauduin apologises once more, bows twice at least, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> leaves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire collapses against the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems to breathe for the first time in hours.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Enjolras kneels by his side: "Are you hurt?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but his hand hovers above the scarring wound in his side: "No, I'm fine. Just weary, that's all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is your wound acting up?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A little." he admits, "But it would've been significantly better if he hadn't shoved his cane into it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" hisses Enjolras. He's starting to regret letting the inspector go with a warning. Grantaire probably sees it in his face and backtracks immediately: "Whatever. We should be on our way now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh no." he shakes his head and Grantaire visibly deflates, "You're not getting out of this one. What happened? Why were you here?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitates for a moment. One look at Enjolras and he makes up his mind, though: "I was walking and my side started to hurt. A lot. I wanted to ask you to stop but you didn't hear me with all the crowd."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's not true. He didn't hear him because he was too lost in his own thoughts, as always.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So I tried to cut my losses and sit down somewhere instead, but… Bauduin saw me limping away and… well…" he scratches the back of his head, "With the excuse of helping me, he took me by the shoulders and dragged me in here. I couldn't get out of it. He started asking a lot of questions, about me, you, Jehan, Fauchelevent, and all that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice cracks, for just a moment. He barrels on without pause, but he can’t hide it: “When I denied involvement with their fugitives, he asked me about my wound and, before I could make an excuse, he poked it with his cane. And wasn't that pleasant? Anyway, that's when you showed up." he chuckles, "And scared him off with your magnificent false entitlement."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No part of that was false." mumbles Enjolras, "Except for our relation. Can you walk?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire makes a non-committal noise: "Probably."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you need to rest a bit?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes." he sighs, "Just… not </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Please. This feels like a great spot to be mugged."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fair point."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He suspects that's not the reason he wants to get out of this street, but what does it matter? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They'll be out of this city very soon.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So I found out that surgeries were performed without anaesthesia in the 1830s (and therefore Enjolras is correct in stating that whatever surgery R could have had would have been incredibly painful), but also that the first successful appendectomy had long since been performed. Make of that what you will  :,)</p><p>Bauduin is an ass but at least he's a cowardly ass and therefore not half as dangeros as our beloved Bouchard back in Paris. To be fair to him I would also cower and run if Enjolras was mad at me.</p><p>see you soon, darlings  &lt;3<br/>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. His Name</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"We're leaving?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan does not sound convinced at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They almost found us." explains Enjolras, "I c- we can't afford to stay here too long."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But wouldn't it be more suspicious if we left now?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jehan has a point." mumbles Grantaire, nursing his side. Why is he agreeing with Jehan again?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, listen. Both of you. Just because I scared one officer off today doesn't mean the investigation on us will end. Sooner or later, they're bound to find something suspicious, and then we'll be on the run again anyway."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What about Fauchelevent?" Jehan puts forward, almost timidly, "We can't exactly warn him without sounding extremely suspicious. And where would we go, anyway? He's our coverup."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's…" Enjolras sighs, "I know. I don't know. I have to think about this. But we can't stay here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We can afford to stay a little longer." shrugs Grantaire, "Until Fauchelevent comes back."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We don't know when he's-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're interrupted by the rattle of a key in the front door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first thing they notice about Fauchelevent is that he looks a few inches shorter than the last time they saw him. It's easy to see why, though, with the weary curve of his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh! Welcome… welcome back, Monsieur." Jehan smiles, awkwardly, "We were just…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cuts himself off when Fauchelevent passes him by with a pat on the back as the only greeting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of them are able to string together more than two words effectively in time to stop him before he drags himself upstairs. A few seconds later, they hear the familiar sound of his bedroom door opening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The click of the door closing falls into complete silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire is the first to recover: "What on earth was that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe he's just tired from the journey?" suggests Jehan, though he doesn't sound too convinced. He's running his fingers through the strands that form his braid like he wants to undo it, but without taking the ribbon off first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That didn't look like tiredness." frowns Enjolras, "But we should probably give him a minute. I'm sure if he needs our help, we'll know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan has a visible shiver: "Something is wrong. I'll make him tea."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm, and maybe put some subtle questioning in it.” mumbles Grantaire, “Though I don’t know how much that will help you. Fauchelevent isn’t exactly talkative.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll find out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan disappears into the kitchen with an air of tired determination.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire follows him with his eyes until he’s gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s doing better.” he comments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stayed here all by himself for hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckles a bit: “That’s good. That’s good. He’s doing good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pride shows, unashamedly, in his eyes. He’s still tired, maybe still a bit frightened or cold, as the curve of his shoulders attests, but he seems to draw genuine joy from Jehan’s rapid improvement. Enjolras couldn’t say he blames him. He could, however, say that he hadn’t quite noticed it with all the worry of the wake and Grantaire’s potential illness behind him. Speaking of which, he should probably check that he’s alright. One thing, in particular, worries him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“R?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I see your wound?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him a few seconds to process and respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, I checked this morning. Nothing there.” he assures, leaning against the wall in a much more casual way than before, “It looks normal. I don’t think it’s the wound. I’m just a little under the weather, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses, takes one look at Enjolras’s face, and quietly adds: “No infections. It’s not even red. I’ve checked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He averted his eyes immediately, but it didn’t look like a lie. It just looks like embarrassment, really. And if it wasn’t a lie, it’s probably best to trust him for the time being, though that is liable to change </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> quickly should he show any more signs of an infection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. How are you feeling now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire smiles lightly: “Just tired. I feel fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Does he now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras decides not to push too much until they figure out what's wrong with Fauchelevent. One problem at a time. One thing at a time, or else they'll get tangled up in a bigger web of problems than the one they're already in, and wouldn't that be lovely?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's spiralling, just a little, just a little at a time, towards a crash, and it could be a devastating crash if he doesn't hold on tight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jehan gets the story out of Fauchelevent. More or less. He gets bits and pieces of a story none of them can put together and a promise that he will explain what happened in detail, but for the time being, the old man wants to be alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is how the three of them end up spending what must be a few hours at least sitting downstairs in near complete silence. Enjolras takes the opportunity to examine his friends' demeanor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan, he observes, looks incredibly nervous, but not as frightened as he used to be when he was left alone. He's twisting his cuffs again just like he always does; some threads of the lace are already beginning to loosen up, but he doesn’t seem to notice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire, meanwhile, sits in a position that he could only define as </span>
  <em>
    <span>improper</span>
  </em>
  <span>, with one leg up on the windowsill and the other, the one on his injured side, hanging loosely off the edge. It doesn't give him any clues as to how the pain is, or if there are any problems relating to his apparent illness. He hates it. But they could really stand to work on their trust, so he stays quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s almost grateful for Fauchelevent’s arrival, right up until he starts talking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Prouvaire tells me you were attacked today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way he stubbornly continues to refer to Jehan by his surname, either out of respect or to avoid confusion with his own first name, as they found out recently, sets him apart from the boys in more ways than one. Everything about him expresses an almost fearful distance between himself and them. The way he sits apart from them, the way he talks without meeting their eyes, the way his limbs stiffen until the only part of him that's moving is his mouth, it all feels strange. Confusing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t call it </span>
  <em>
    <span>being attacked</span>
  </em>
  <span>…” mumbles Grantaire, once again politely ignored by everyone with a smidge of sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” corrects Enjolras, “R was. The officer backed off, for now, but-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He believed you.” Jehan interrupts him, “I think it’ll be suspicious if we leave. What if that just stokes the fire?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That won’t matter if we’re too far away to be found.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have to get there first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jehan-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fauchelevent clears his throat, cutting the argument short in the most polite way he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will do what I can to help you.” he starts, even quieter than usual, “If you want me to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why wouldn’t we w-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man raises his hand, just enough to tell them to </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait and listen</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen to me first.” he murmurs, “And then you will judge me as you like."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up at Enjolras for the first time that day and Enjolras almost jumps. There is nothing but dejection and shame in his eyes. As the familiar sting of panic twists in his gut, the old man begins his story.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Starting with his name.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Merry Christmas my darlings  :D<br/>It's a lovely, lovely day for a new chapter, don't you think?<br/>Hope this answers all your questions about what JVJ's been up to :)))  in this house we only stray from canon in moderation.</p><p>- Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. There Was A Woman</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His name is not, and never was, Fauchelevent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His name is much less familiar to them, yet he acts as though they should know it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who is Jean Valjean? No one they've ever heard of, that he can remember. Clearly, no one important in the public eye. Yet, Valjean acts as though they should be disgusted, afraid, distrustful. And sure, Enjolras does not quite trust someone who was lying about his name the whole time, but it's been </span>
  <em>
    <span>months</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He had every occasion to hurt them, but he didn't. He had every occasion to turn them in, but he went out of his way to hide them. Why? Out of a sense of responsibility for the barricade? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't figure him out. He can't figure out why he seems so ashamed of himself. He has stolen before, he said, but was it truly a crime if the man forgave him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras snaps out of his thoughts to the sound of a strangled sob. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time, it's not Jehan's, or Grantaire's. He would recognise either of those, unfortunately. This one is less familiar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart drops. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monsieur." he calls, more coldly than he'd like. The old man lifts his eyes, so empty and so full at the same time, and so clearly expecting Enjolras to run away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes?" he somehow manages to choke out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is this all true? This story you just told us?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> what he meant to say. Of course it's true. Why wouldn’t it be true? If Grantaire is transparent in his eyes, and Jehan in his words, Fauchelevent- no, Valjean, is transparent in his actions. And everything about him is a testament to his sincerity as he waits for their response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nevermind.” he corrects himself immediately, “I believe you. But why are you telling us this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, that’s not what he wanted to say, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, wait.” he backtracks once again, passing a hand over his eyes, “Just wait. Wait. I just need… I need a second. I’ll answer. I’ll answer right away. I promise. Give me… I don’t know. A few moments. A few moments is enough. It’s enough…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He realises a little too late that he’s dissolved into mumbling and that that prompted everyone to stare at him in what looks suspiciously similar to concern. Which he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn't need right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What I meant…" he sighs, if only to get them off his back, "...is that I, for one, have never heard of Jean Valjean. I have heard of hundreds of citizens who would steal, and worse, for another's sake. I know I would." he adds, quietly. "The blame does not fall upon the hungry people of France, it never has; the blame is, and should be put on, those who swore to help and protect them, those that were given the means to, and did nothing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel his chest burn with that familiar flame of rage: "There are countless men, women, and children in Paris, and all over France, who have to resort to any means to keep themselves and their families alive. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> this, we all know this. We've all seen it. There are men who work until their backs break and women who work until their hands bleed. They sell their possessions, parts of their body, sometimes their entire body, just to get by."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean flinches, but Enjolras can't stop. The flame is burning again, after so long, and it's like a wildfire where a simple bonfire used to be: "I can accept a confession of guilt, Monsieur. I can accept it, because you mean well. But I must warn you, if you blame yourself so cruelly, you are blaming those people too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean won't meet his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flame begins to flicker, but it's alright. It has served its purpose. Enjolras takes a rather shaky breath and attempts to collect himself in time to finish his speech: "I suppose, in short, I am saying this. Besides, are you really such a menace as you seem to think you are if no one's even heard of you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I second that." nods Jehan, "I've never heard of you. And if what you told us is true then-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's interrupted by an unintentionally loud snort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three pairs of eyes immediately turn on Grantaire, who tries to feign innocence at first. It isn't until Enjolras raises his brow at him that he cracks a little: "I'm sorry." he starts, putting his hands forward, "I'm sorry. It's just… your heartfelt and admittedly eloquent little speeches failed to mention something I find very important."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two exchange a look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What would that be?" asks Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire grins at them, and his smile turns almost tender when his eyes meet Valjean's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aren't we all convicted criminals here?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I suppose we are." murmurs Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan chuckles awkwardly: "What a merry band we are, aren't we?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Indeed!" cackles Grantaire, "A merry band of criminals who are more innocuous than the police ever was. Cheers to us!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"R, come on." scolds Jehan, "We did start a revolt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Innocuous </span>
  </em>
  <span>isn't the word I'd use. Now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>innocent</span>
  </em>
  <span>, on the other hand-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There was a woman."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all fall silent as Valjean speaks up for the first time in ten minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There was a woman, at the time when I owned a factory. She isn't here anymore. She worked for me, though I didn't know her back then. That woman had a very young daughter, born out of wedlock, hidden away in a different city." he mumbles, "She loved her, more than anything, more than herself. She sent money to the ones who were meant to be caring for her. But rumours, venomous rumours, began to spread about her and her little girl, and the woman who managed the factory sent her away before it could tarnish her reputation, and mine. The woman sold everything she could. It was just as you said: first, her possessions, her clothes and the furniture and her little house. Then, parts of herself. I never saw it, but I'm told she had beautiful hair before she sold it. I'm told her teeth were as perfect as pearls before she allowed a merchant to rip them out of her mouth. And finally, when all she had left was her body, she sold that too. And all for nothing." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He visibly grits his teeth, and they can all see the soft arms of the chair sink under his grip: "All without knowing her daughter wasn't receiving any of the money she did anything to earn. I didn’t know any of this. I didn’t know until I met her again, when she was arrested and she finally got to tell me what I'd done when I'd let my assistant send her away. It was too late for her. That woman holds more of my respect than nearly everyone I've ever known, and yet all it took was a harsh winter in the streets to return her soul to heaven."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence is thick enough to hear a pin drop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean collects himself quickly enough: "I promised her, when it was clear she would not live, that I would bring her daughter to her."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A brief, tense pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean's shoulders slump.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I couldn't." he admits, "I failed to recover the girl in time. Death does not wait for the fulfillment of promises. But, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> death was past the horizon, I kept the second half of that promise: that I would take mother and child under my wing. I could do nothing for the mother, of course, but I retrieved the child and raised her as my own."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something clicks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your Cosette." murmurs Enjolras.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Welcome back, my darlings  :D  I haven't seen you since last year!!<br/>I am so very proud of myself and every single one of you for surviving 2020. Let's keep up the good work  :)</p><p>And is that a bit of old canon Enj poking through there? Oh my.</p><p>Anywho, FANTINE. That's all, just... her. She damn well deserves all the aforementioned respect and I am here for it.  </p><p>That is all for now  :,)  I will see you all soon  &lt;3</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. For Cosette.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The more time passes, the more that vague ink blot that is Valjean’s daughter and Marius’s wife becomes a portrait of the girl known as Cosette. Slowly, the brush strokes that form her image become more precise, the spaces fill in, the colours grow vivid and bright. The picture has a voice now, a strange, fluctuating voice, but a voice regardless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras feels like he ought to have seen her before. There’s no way he could remember her presence so clearly otherwise. But no, it’s just Valjean, who’s talking about her now, non-stop. The gates are open now that her name’s been spoken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s her name that finally gets Valjean to admit what’s been troubling him. Well, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> has been troubling him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I told you, about myself…” he murmurs, “I had this same conversation with Baron Pontmercy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Marius.” Grantaire corrects, almost instinctively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. He-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hang on.” Grantaire puts up a hand to stop him, “Wait. Is that the issue? What did he tell you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean looks at him like one looks at a long, dark hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like he’s expecting a trap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no…” he shakes his head, cautiously, “No, he didn’t tell me anything. He simply agreed with me that I should… leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you said you thought you should leave, and he said the same?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire puffs out a heavy sigh. It turns into a scoff somewhere down the line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you </span>
  <em>
    <span>listened </span>
  </em>
  <span>to him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a single beat of stunned silence, mainly on Valjean’s part, as he tries to process Grantaire’s reaction to something he clearly perceives as obvious. It’s broken by the tiniest burst of laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Enjolras can’t tell where it comes from. It sounds unfamiliar to him. That is, until he finds everyone’s eyes are fixed on him. No wonder the sound was unfamiliar. He doesn’t laugh nearly as often as his friends do. It’s odd how they look at him, with expressions somewhere between surprise and concern, like a genuine burst of laughter should ever be cause for concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On second thought, he can think of a few occasions where that would be true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry." he murmurs, "I was… thinking about Marius. Grantaire is right, any opinion he expresses should be taken with a grain of salt. Trust us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh yes." agrees Jehan, "He can be just a little… um… well, you see… how do I put this?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Impulsive." suggests Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"More like irrational." mumbles Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, thank you. Both of those are correct." he chuckles, "The point is, Monsieur, that Marius was wrong and so were you. I think Enjolras said it best. I can't think of a better way to tell you what I think than to refer you to his speech."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles almost apologetically: "You are one of many people we were fighting for. I am deeply sorry that you and Marius failed to realise that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I second that!" exclaims Grantaire, "Never the brightest of the bunch, that boy, but I can’t say he ever lacked courage. I would not dare to speak to you like that, and I know you would not harm a fly if it was sucking blood from your neck. He's got guts, I tell you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"R, please." mumbles Enjolras, "Back to the topic at hand."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right, sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"On behalf of Marius," he continues, "I would like to apologise for that unnecessary mistreatment of his father-in-law. If only he knew how lucky he is to have acquired family like yourself, I suspect he would act differently. Either way, you must not let him influence you. You're older and wiser than him and you should know better than to run away from your daughter."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She doesn't n-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Need you?" he tilts his head, "Perhaps not, but that does not in any way imply that she doesn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> you around. Is it really so painful to you that she doesn't depend on you? Or is it something else that disturbs you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean hesitates. Some part of Enjolras is very pleased to find that he has struck a nerve. A good nerve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't…" Valjean starts, then backtracks immediately and goes silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes?" Grantaire encourages. He backs it up with the smallest pat on Valjean's shoulder, uncharacteristically gentle, an unconscious sign of respect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean finally finds the strength to speak up again, but not to look them in the eyes: "I don't… I'm proud of her. I'm proud that she doesn't have to rely on me anymore. It's just that… now that she doesn't need me to protect her, I…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can't see a reason why she would want me around."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras hears a sharp breath come from where Grantaire is sitting. He himself is silent, but he can't say he blames him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” is all he can say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the old man can’t seem to answer him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No offense, Monsieur Valjean…” Jehan intervenes, “...but I do believe you may have jumped to conclusions here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like a grasshopper.” comments Grantaire, just loud enough for them to hear it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, thank you R. That is…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An excellent simile, if you ask me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t, but thank you anyway.” sighs Jehan, “Either way, the issue remains. I sincerely hope you’ll know better than to agree with Marius on something like that next time you’re having doubts. I do believe you ought to explain yourself to your daughter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowns a bit: “I would be very upset if you just left without warning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras suspects that there is a reason why he didn’t use his own father as an example.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean looks almost timid: “I don’t know how-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is because you didn’t think this through.” sighs Grantaire, “But never fear, I’ve never thought anything through in my entire life. It’s not too late to fix it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about talking, it’s that it works more often than you think it will. Far more often.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, really. Didn’t you also talk things out with old Javert this summer?” he continues, “Didn’t you talk things out with that woman you told us about, when she thought you to have malicious intent?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a beat of silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes." admits Valjean, "They were angry with me. But Cosette is not angry with me. There is nothing to speak about here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan makes a non-committal noise: "Isn't there?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There is." mumbles Grantaire, "Sir, with all due respect, and that is a lot of respect for my standards, you are incredibly dense."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Grantaire</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not right now, love. Let me finish. As I was saying," he continues, completely ignoring Enjolras, "I do believe you've failed to take something into account here. Have you considered that perhaps your daughter would like to know where the hell you went? You haven’t told her about us, have you? I suspect we'd be having a different conversation if you had."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is a conversation I hadn't foreseen." grumbles the old man, "I was not prepared for this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was not prepared for a great majority of my life." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Grantaire, please." sighs Enjolras, "The point is, I think we all agree we're not the ones you should be explaining yourself to."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean looks older than he did before he left, somehow. Heavier, like there's something pulling him down into the chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I need to rest." he mumbles, and he's left the room before they can stop him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stunned silence lasts maybe ten seconds, though, before Grantaire turns to them with a strangely serious and determined look in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine, I'll do it myself."</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes I know I am dreadfully late  :(<br/>Unfortunately I'm having a minor relapse in mental health, they are rather unpredictable and I can't really warn people about this unless there's a huge external cause but I still got this chapter out so WHO WINS, BRAIN??</p><p>Anywho, Valjean's self-esteem needs a boost, and by a boost I mean the emotional equivalent of steroids because BOY. </p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Something</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Grantaire doesn't show them the letter. It's already sealed when he comes out of his room to send it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't think to run it by you." he admits when they confront him about it, "I was barely even thinking about anything outside of my room and this letter."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other two tacitly forgive him with a nod of their head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So how exactly do you plan to send it?" sighs Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"By post." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I gathered that much. Where are you even going to send it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"At… his house?" Grantaire quirks his brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You have his address?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire gives him a smile that should be mocking but just comes across as fond: "I asked him. Some of us like to make small talk, Enjolras."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That actually gives him pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras’s gaze shifts to the speck on the wall to R's left: "I make small talk." he mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure, love."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The letter is sent, and Valjean is none the wiser. Perhaps he would have found out, if only he'd left his room in the span of the three days it took for R to write it, send it, and quell all discussion of it in their group. But no, he stayed there, alone, only coming downstairs to eat something after they'd already left for bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan made a point to leave something out for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never seemed to eat it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, though, almost four days later, he finally gathers his wits enough to talk to them again, perhaps encouraged by their mostly unchanged behaviour towards him. Enjolras thinks he may have been giving them time to leave by locking himself in. He hopes he's wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The letter is never brought up, obviously, and neither is Cosette.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Within a week or two, Valjean is even well enough to leave the house and run errands, though Enjolras suspects it might be because Jehan told him what happened last time, given how strongly he opposed R when he offered to come along. He keeps glancing at Grantaire, in fact, who has clearly noticed it and doesn't seem too enthusiastic about all the attention. It's a well-known fact by now that he doesn’t like to talk about his injury or being approached by Bauduin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's understandable, really. Enjolras doesn’t like to think about it either, but his mind won't let him forget it for too long. The feeling of pure panic he felt when he realised Grantaire wasn't following him is still so vivid in his memory that he feels his chest seize when he thinks about it, and the thought of how scared his friend might've been to have lost him in the crowd right when he needed help makes him sick. Not to mention being essentially kidnapped in plain view of dozens of people. Bauduin got off too easy, but there isn't much he can do about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean must've come to the same conclusion as him, judging by the extra care with which he handles Grantaire since Jehan went to give him an update a few days ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is why he leaves for town alone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He has no idea, does he?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire waits less than an hour to start talking about Valjean. He is inordinately proud of his mediocre stealth, but it’s almost endearing. They let him get away with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan decides to bite the bait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” he smiles, “No, he doesn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sent that letter a while ago.” mutters Enjolras, “When are we expecting a response again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who knows?” he shrugs, “There’s a lot of factors involved.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> still snowing…” murmurs Jehan, “And I still don’t know if she’ll take that letter seriously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire almost answers him. Almost. Instead, he shrugs it off: “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Anyway, I’ll be right back. I’m cold.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cold?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quite. I don’t feel the best. I think maybe resting will do me some good.” he nods, already making a stumbling beeline for the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras honestly does not feel like confronting him at the moment: “Go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan waits until he’s sure he’s out of earshot before turning to Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something is wrong.” he says, simply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s just tired.” Enjolras lies, fooling no one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t just mean R.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something is wrong today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” Jehan shivers a bit, “But I don’t like it. It’s like there’s a pit in my stomach. And it’s been there all day, particularly since M Jean left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras doesn’t feel anything of the sort. He’s not sure whether that should worry him more or less. Either way, he isn’t willing to dismiss the feeling entirely, not when it’s coming from Jehan, who was always much better than him at this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans towards his friend just a little: “What kind of feeling is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it more like sadness, fear, something else? What does it feel like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan thinks about it for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s like…” a pause, “...it’s like waking up from a nightmare you don’t remember. It’s like being sure something will go wrong and not knowing what.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does that make sense?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras looks away: “Yes. It does.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, Jehan sees right through his skittish mannerisms: “Does it sound familiar, maybe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” he lies. He changes his mind almost immediately: “Yes. I’ll be on my guard. That’s all I will say on the matter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan doesn’t insist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can say anything else, though, there’s a knock at the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They exchange a look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Monsieur Jean has the keys.” murmurs Jehan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s too early.” Enjolras quietly agrees, “Jehan, go find R and stay with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll hide too. Hopefully they go away. Hurry up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enjolras-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go with R.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan hesitates, but a louder knock makes him recoil a little and he immediately relents. He runs upstairs about as quietly as someone can run. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras does exactly what he said he would do and ducks behind the kitchen door just in time to avoid being seen by whoever has somehow managed to open the door. Judging by the noise, they have broken the lock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he’s convinced it’s over. He did not hide nearly as well as he would’ve liked. There was barely any time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can make any decisions at all, though, he hears the intruder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a girl’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Papa?"</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>THAT'S RIGHT LADIES AND GENTLEMEN<br/>Oh my God I have wanted to write this for quite some time now.</p><p>Congrats to everyone who guessed we were gonna have a reunion soon  :)  and thank you for being so gosh darn sweet in the comments, what the heck guys  :,)   I'm gonna blush</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. The Doubt In His Eyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Papa?” calls the voice, and all the pieces fall into place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Enjolras breathes, too quietly to be heard. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He had honestly assumed that, even if she were to take the letter seriously, she would reply with a letter instead of barging in like that. He was wrong, apparently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can fully process what he just heard, the girl moves on with her search, past the door and up the stairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That's when he realises she's not alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cosette, wait! Wait for me!" someone pants, and limping footsteps follow in her train, much slower than hers. And, if the voice wasn't enough, if the fact that he called her by her name wasn't enough, that indication that he's clearly recovering from an injury all but confirms that the Baroness brought her husband with her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras steps out of the kitchen just in time to catch a flash of her cape as she turns the corner up the stairs, but Marius is still there. He resolves to get his attention before he can follow her any further: "Marius?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marius freezes in his tracks. His wide and restless eyes, filled with a sort of doubt he can't identify, find him in a matter of seconds. He looks almost worse than he did at the barricade. Haunted, somehow. He looks paler, he was clearly limping a moment ago, there are two dark circles around his eyes, and a tremble in his arm that wasn’t there before. He lingers there for a moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Doubt swirls in his tired eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right away, though, his face falls and he turns away, going after Cosette without a single word spared for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Enjolras a little too long to follow him but, before he can grab Marius and demand an explanation, there’s a short, startled scream from upstairs and they both run as fast as the stairs will allow. Marius, especially, loses any trace of grace or pain in his step and runs like the wind, faster than before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The scream was Cosette, no doubt, but Enjolras isn’t worried about her. R must’ve heard her yelling her way through the house, and he wouldn’t have hurt her. But she doesn’t know him, and he clearly startled her, and she was raised by Valjean, and he doesn’t trust her to be as innocuous as she looks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His suspicion is confirmed when he hears Grantaire protest: “Mademoiselle, please put that down. That’s for opening messages, not messengers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Messengers?” she breathes, “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marius slows to a stop in the hallway. Enjolras doesn’t dare catch his eye this time, and stops behind him as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Last I checked, that’s what you call the one who brings you news.” says Grantaire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re that R?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Grand R</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yes. And you’re that Cosette.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Legally, I’m your older brother.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marius has apparently heard enough. Slowly, he stumbles his way into the room to join his wife.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras goes no further than the doorway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inside the room stands a young woman in blue. He can only see her back, but he can very clearly see the letter opener in her clenched and pale hands. Grantaire holds his hands up in a placating gesture. He doesn’t look too scared, unlike Jehan, who, tucked into the corner, watches the scene with the face of someone who doesn’t know whether intervening would make their strange situation better or worse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, it’s like a painting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, Grantaire locks eyes with Marius. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing really happens, yet something invisible hits Marius so hard that it nearly makes him fall to the ground. Cosette finally looks over her shoulder to find him staring at the man she was just pointing a letter opener at.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Marius?” she whispers, for confirmation more than anything.  She finds it, apparently, because her arms fall by her side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marius finally takes a few steps into the room, without breaking eye contact with Grantaire. Grantaire, on his part, looks mildly uncomfortable with the way Marius is staring at him, and reacts accordingly: "Well, I haven't seen you in a while. Did you get taller while I wasn't looki-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's cut off by Marius essentially slamming into him, which cannot be good for either of their injuries, as Cosette and Jehan’s almost flinching reaction attests.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ow-" he protests, "Easy, easy, Marius! Ow!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marius, his face buried in Grantaire's shoulder, does not reply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or, he would, if quiet sobs were an acceptable reply. Grantaire visibly softens: "I didn't realise you missed me that much, love, and I'm flattered, truly, but uh… well, you see, I may have been slightly… gravely... injured in the exact place that you're currently squeezing and I think it would do us both some good if you were just a bit more gentle."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marius staggers back before he's even done talking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Injured?" he repeats, and his voice cracks before he can even get through that one word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's a long story." Grantaire dismisses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jehan, presumably feeling left out, finally steps forward from his dark corner: "But how are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Marius? I hear you were injured too, should you really be travelling?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marius, once again, looks at him for a moment and then goes back to Grantaire without answering: "I have time. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We</span>
  </em>
  <span> have time."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's done it again. Jehan looks obviously confused and maybe a little hurt, but the strange thing is that Cosette looks just as confused as he does. Gently, she brushes her hand against Marius’s shoulder, a clear encouragement to answer, but he doesn’t seem to catch the signal. She frowns, lifting her arm to point at Jehan: "Marius, he asked you a question."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hesitates, initially, but he follows her gaze to where the poet stands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever hit him before hits him again: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>…" he breathes, "Oh. Is… are you… Prouvaire…?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, of course!" Jehan tilts his head, "I've been standing here the whole time! Do I look so different from six months ago?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No…" Marius shakes his head, and his voice cracks again: "No, you don't. You look… you look exactly the same."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jehan looks uncomfortable: "I… I understand my presence might be confusing, Marius, but I uh… there's no need to cry."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marius does it again. He turns to his wife for confirmation, and she nods almost pitifully. He turns back to Jehan and voices what's on his mind: "You… </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> real, aren't you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course I'm real! Marius-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're real."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes!" he exclaims. But any exasperation he might’ve felt falls from his face immediately and he resolves to take a step forward and offer his hands instead: "I'm as real as you are. Come, take my hands if you don't believe me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Marius a long time. Eventually, though, he closes the three or four steps of distance between him and Jehan and tentatively holds out his hands. When they meet solid flesh, it's like he melts. His tense shoulders fall, as does any trace of distrust, and he pulls Jehan into his arms, though much more gently than with Grantaire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost like he's afraid he'll break him if he doesn't.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jehan lets out a giggle of pure, cathartic joy, running his hand up and down Marius's trembling shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Marius.” he smiles, pulling away without hurry. Marius lets him, but he doesn’t look happy about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the drop of a dime, Enjolras becomes aware of his own presence in the doorway, just behind Marius. A moment of panic seizes his heart tight when he realises that everyone else will become aware of him soon as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't have time to linger on it, though, because Marius turns to face him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only, this time, the doubt in his eyes doesn’t fade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, just a moment, his eyes speak loud and clear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Is anyone else seeing this?</span>
  </em>
  <span> They wonder.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>That's right, those two whumptober fics were canon  :D<br/>I am on quite a roll, fortunately, hence why this chapter is out on a decent schedule  :D</p>
<p>(P.S.: The first exchange between Cosette and R, and the line "that's for opening messages, not messengers" is a probably obscure reference  :D  I'll leave it at that for now.)</p>
<p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Tremble</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It makes sense now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all makes sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why Marius ignored him, why he ignored Jehan, why he looked like he was deliberately trying to look the other way any time Enjolras got too close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't think he's real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the fact that he was so calm about it suggests that it isn't the first time he's seen people that weren't there. His attitude speaks of a rule, not an exception, to his daily life. And that, to Enjolras, is terrifying, now that he thinks about it. Sure, his nightmares, to him, were better than feeling nothing at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Marius never feels nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's always too much of one thing, or another, or both at the same time; too much anger, too much happiness, too much fear, too much love. Marius is, by nature, an emotional creature. To him, seeing the faces of the dead everywhere would probably feel less like catharsis and more like endless, hellish torture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The notion sends a shiver up his spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Marius." he says, but it comes out a lot quieter than he meant it to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does it again. He turns to Cosette. She nods almost imperceptibly. She watches him for a moment, as he takes a sheepish step forward, and then her scrupulous blue eyes fix on Enjolras. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sounds ridiculous, but he feels quite privately happy to find no interest beyond suspicion in them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No time to linger on that, though. While he was distracted, Marius seemingly gathered his courage and he's a lot closer than he was before and, if his stance is any indication, he fully intends to wrap his arms around Enjolras’s shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras has to suppress his instinct to push him away when, a moment later, he reaches him and opens his arms wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Let him have this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he tells himself, but whatever is left of his anxious battle reflexes makes him take a step back anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Marius notices.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slows to a stop before he can ever touch Enjolras, like someone grabbed him by the back of his coat. His posture says something between </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>why?</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s confusing, frustrating even, how strangely hurt he looks. He doesn’t understand it right away. Not until his wandering gaze meets Jehan.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He extends his hands to Marius, the same way Jehan did, but he can’t find it in himself to offer the same kind words, or any words at all. Marius, on his part, takes much longer to convince himself that it’s fine to respond accordingly. Even when he does reach out, he goes for Enjolras’s right forearm, not his hands. He looks at them, but only in the same way that a child looks at something they were told not to touch. He doesn’t even consider it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s that suffocating air of uncertainty that finally gets Enjolras to talk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look terrible.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fine, he could have started that conversation better. Still, Grantaire’s expression seems just a little too amused. He elects to ignore it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marius lets out a bitter, yet somewhat cathartic laugh: “I do, don’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hasn’t let go of his arm, bur Enjolras doesn’t draw attention to it and he continues unimpeded: “I must. I haven’t been well, as I’m sure you can see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t recognise you if you had.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Marius asks, barely a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, no. Why does everything he says come off as cold? That’s not what he wants. He meant for that comment to sound warm and yet, somewhere between his thoughts and his tongue, it turned ice cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It always sounds warmer in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I meant was that I wouldn’t expect you to be well so soon after what happened.” he clarifies, “If you were, I would be ashamed to call you my friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was cold, too. Why can’t he ever just say things like he means them? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marius takes that better than his first comment, though: “Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something else, someone else, draws his attention then. Barely a whisper, but he hears it, coming from behind Marius.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enjolras.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t feel like someone called his name. It wasn’t Jehan. It wasn’t Grantaire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Cosette.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s more, she was so clearly not trying to attract his attention. She’s looking at him, but she isn’t talking to him. It feels more like she’s talking </span>
  <em>
    <span>about</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. It's like she came to a realisation of some kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts two and two together when Marius nods at her, confirming that the one he's talking to is, indeed, Enjolras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He realises that his name has not been spoken once before while she was in the house to hear it. There's only one possible conclusion, and it worries him a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> recognisable?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That one bit of weight adds on to the crushing pile of evidence that he is, indeed, easy to spot: Bouchard's off-hand comments about not forgetting a face like his, Fournier's remark that he and his friends look a lot like the rebels, Bauduin's accusations. What do the three officers have in common, besides their position? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all came very close to finding him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hits him harder than he'd like to admit, hard enough to make his foot move back just an inch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette all but confirms his suspicions: "You're that Enjolras."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, unable to form a suitable verbal response in an acceptable amount of time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Marius talked about you, many times."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aww…" snickers Grantaire, thankfully ignored by everyone except Jehan. Who seems to agree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We didn't know you were still…" she trails off mid-sentence, but it's so obvious what she was going to say; it hangs heavy above them as an unpleasant truth: </span>
  <em>
    <span>they are alive and the others are not</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's really all there is to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras can't help the answer that comes from his traitorous tongue: "We came close."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But we're here." Jehan helpfully points out. "We're here…" he repeats, quietly, almost to himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jehan makes tea, of course he does. It's his way to calm himself down before an unpleasant conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's also warm, which Grantaire seems to appreciate a lot more than usual. Right. He was cold before, and he didn’t get to take that nap after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Currently, he's nursing his cup, close to his face, so that the warmth can reach every bit of exposed skin on his body. He must be quite cold, indeed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette and Marius sit side by side, though she has to help him hold the cup up sometimes, due to that new tremble in his arm. Enjolras had initially mistaken it for fear, but it's obvious now that his damage is far more permanent than a little anxiety. Something must have snapped or torn in there. He isn't quite sure how muscles and bones work, nor veins, or nerves, or whatever else is in an arm, but he's fairly certain that at least one of those things has been irreparably damaged. He wonders if that tremble will ever leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if Grantaire will ever stop limping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if that sound of a door opening will ever stop frightening them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still does, it turns out.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't you just love it when you just keep on failing to convey your emotional state through words so you have to correct yourself over and over to avoid people getting hurt or offended through a simple misunderstanding thus labeling you as rude at best and hypocritical at worst? DON'T YOU JUST LOVE THAT???  :DDD</p><p>Oof, I got a bit miffed there. <br/>My bad  :)</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Epiphany</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Heavy footsteps shuffle through the living room with clear urgency, but only Marius seems frightened. It makes sense. He doesn’t know those footsteps like the rest of them do. He puts two and two together when Cosette eagerly stands from her seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile on her face does not match Valjean’s look of pure anxiety when he first comes into the room. Nor the look of surprise it quickly changes into. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He freezes up when she goes to hug him, but the amount of questions in his eyes suggests that he has too much, rather than too little, to say. The way she clings to him is telling, the way he doesn’t cling to her is just as telling, knowing him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, we’ve been worried.” she says, muffled into his shoulder, “You should have told us, Papa. You should have told </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Why didn’t you tell me? I searched for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finally seems to find the strength to lift his arms to her back, but he still doesn't answer. Grantaire takes initiative: "You look like you're wondering how they found us here, Monsieur."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is, without a doubt. Judging by the look on his face, he has many questions. The answer starts to form in his mind when Grantaire smiles at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was you!" exclaims the old man, though his tone is indecipherable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was me." grins Grantaire, reveling in mischief, "See? We told you she'd be happy to see you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How did you reach her?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I sent a letter to Marius."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean turns, half indignant and half tired, towards Enjolras: "Did you know?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels a small stab of anxiety, but his voice doesn't waver: "I knew and approved of it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette turns away from her father, though her hand remains locked tightly with his. She almost looks pensive. Like she's trying to remember something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, she speaks up, addressing Enjolras: "How long have you been staying with him?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"More than seven months now." he answers, "Jehan since the 6th of June, and Grantaire and I since the 7th."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pauses for a moment. Her expression goes from puzzled, as she does the math, to anxious, to one of abject horror. The colour drains from her face and she staggers back a little. Marius, quick on his feet, goes to support her, completely forgetting that he isn't stable either, and the whole thing very nearly results in the couple collapsing to the ground still tangled together. Thankfully, Valjean and Grantaire take hold of Cosette and Marius, respectively, and get them to sit back down without incident.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That seems like a good time to address the elephant in the room, but Jehan beats him to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's wrong, Mademoiselle? Do you feel ill?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette seems to have recovered her breath, at least, but her tongue is paralysed. She's pale, staring vacantly ahead of her like she's been hit by a memory, like she's watching it play out before her eyes. If her face is any indication, it is not a pleasant memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cosette?" tries Marius, squeezing her hand until the tips of her fingers are white.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean also seems to be trying to bring her back from wherever her mind went. It's when he positions himself in front of her, directly in the line of her blank stare, that she finally snaps out of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what a snap it is. Paler than before, yet forgetting her momentary weakness, she springs to her feet, grabbing her father's hands in a tight grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cosette?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Rue de l'Homme Armé." she stuttered, "You were in the other house. On Rue de l'Homme Armé."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I- yes…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And they were with you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tension in her arms melts as she sinks to her knees in front of him. Valjean is quick to join her, but she has let go of his hands and rejects his attempts to hold hers again. For all the world, Enjolras thinks, she looks ashamed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boys have formed a strange, unintentional semi-circle around the father and daughter at the center of the room. None of them notice. Their attention is wholly taken by the despairing girl in front of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh!" she sobs, "Oh, I've… oh, you were there. I didn’t realise you were… oh-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her shoulders shake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strangely, Enjolras is the one who breaks the silence: "What do you mean?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire shoots him a strange look. Like he knows more than the rest of them do. He seems to have figured something out, just from Cosette's sobs. Marius seems to have come to the same realisation; only, instead of being surprised, he looks utterly horrified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I s- back in June, I-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cuts herself off again. The silence is long and heavy as she composes herself enough to stop her dry, panicked sobbing fit. For a moment, she looks directly at Enjolras, but her eyes shift away immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shame, without a doubt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, she can at least speak coherently: "Back in June, I received a visit. Marius wasn't awake yet. I was playing some music in the hopes that it would at least make his sleep more pleasant, when…" she pauses, "...when there was a knock at the door, and the page announced that it was the new inspector."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The temperature drops. At least, that's how it feels to everyone involved: Jehan shivers, Grantaire curls up in his seat a little, and Enjolras just seems to freeze solid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hasn't even said his </span>
  <em>
    <span>name</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And yet, there they all are, as stiff and cold as the bastard would no doubt have liked them to be. There is no time to process, though. She presses on: "He was polite, but he spoke so… gravely. Like the bearer of bad news. I was very anxious to hear what made him look like that. He told me that my father had left home without an explanation and without taking anything with him; he said that he suspected him to be in danger and… and…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes are no longer dry: "...and what was I </span>
  <em>
    <span>meant </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do? I couldn't ignore him!! Papa, you were behaving so strangely, like you wanted to say goodbye to me without ever speaking that word. You looked frightened, and resigned, and he only told me you may have been harbouring criminals- nothing else- and that they were dangerous, and Papa… you have such a good heart, how was I meant to deny that possibility? How could I ignore the fact that you may have been staying, alone, with dangerous men, and- perhaps even never see me again? I couldn't!! I couldn't!!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head, frantically, burying her hands in whatever strands of her brown hair are loose enough to do so, and cries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean hasn't moved. He hasn't moved throughout her entire confession, and he shows no signs of ever moving again. He's frozen. His expression is, once again, ambiguous enough that Enjolras can't tell whether he's shocked, angry, and at who, or frightened, or just indifferent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette can't tell either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you angry, Papa?" she sobs, reaching forward without touching him, "Are you angry? Don't be angry with me, please. I was frightened!! I am so sorry, I am sorry, I did not mean for this to happen!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean still doesn't answer, or move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has a hard time processing what he's hearing, Enjolras knows it, but he knows something else too: if she doesn't receive the validation she needs, immediately, the wound will start to fester. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's why he takes action, setting a hand on her trembling shoulder. She gasps at the unexpected contact, whipping around to face him with her face painted white and red from crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No." says Enjolras, "He isn't angry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks around for a moment, searching for permission he finds immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not angry, either."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am back, once again!! My brain was kicking my ass the past few days, but I WON ONCE MORE, LADS!!  :D<br/>And now it's time for your regularly scheduled heartbreak  :D<br/>To everyone who immediately excluded the possibility of Cosette being the spy... know that I may have laughed a little reading your comments but also I love you for that.</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. That Near, Far Shore</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"We're not angry." confirms Jehan, and Grantaire nods approvingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fairly certain I would’ve done the same.” he shrugs, “Who wouldn’t? No hard feelings, Mademoiselle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It occurs to Enjolras that it should probably be </span>
  <em>
    <span>Madame</span>
  </em>
  <span> now, but then, </span>
  <em>
    <span>citoyenne</span>
  </em>
  <span> always did sound better to him. Married or unmarried, at any age, </span>
  <em>
    <span>citoyenne</span>
  </em>
  <span> still worked. It seemed a little strange to have to ask whether a lady was married or not before he could ever properly address her. Like the girl from the market for instance, walking with her little sister, her hands concealed behind heavy white gloves. He hasn’t spoken to her, but if he had, how would he have known whether or not she was married? He knows married girls much younger than she looked, Cosette included. For all the world, she looks like any other girl to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She dries her tears with the back of her sleeve; it’s childish and a little improper, but that only endears her to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could have been the death of you.” she points out, very quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>We</span>
  </em>
  <span> could’ve been the death of us.” chuckles Grantaire, “Seriously, we caused ourselves more trouble than you ever did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire’s eyes soften: “You worry too much, sister. Don’t make me repeat myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t object to that. She finally stands, with some help from Marius, and they both help Valjean stand, in a charming little display. Marius, who has been sidelined throughout the whole conversation, finally turns back to them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still haven’t told me what happened.” he tells Jehan, in a small voice. It’s a testament to how much and how little he wants that answer, how he struggles to ask even Jehan, by far the least intimidating person in the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The poet tilts his head a little: “I don’t think now is a good time, Marius. Not… for you, at least. You look very uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marius looks away immediately, a sure sign that Jehan’s delicate, yet direct comment hit and sank the mark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, it wasn’t a very difficult guess, now that he thinks about it. He’s barely stopped shaking. He’s probably not ready to share scar stories. Cosette isn’t, either, not while she’s still so plagued by her guilt. So Enjolras just nods his approval and lets Jehan do the whole feelings thing. It’s better for everyone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan smiles at his friend: “You’ll know when it’s time to talk about it, I promise. Try to come to me before that moment comes and I won’t let you say a single word. I’ll know it if you try it. But come to me when you’re ready, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Is that alright with you, Marius?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him a moment to answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They decide to leave before it gets too risky. They have time, now, but it won’t be long before Bauduin gets over himself and puts two and two together again. And Enjolras is willing to bet that Cosette and Marius weren’t as careful at covering their tracks as the rest of them were. Which makes them liable to be followed by parisian parasites.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They have their things together quickly enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an odd scene, the six of them sitting in a carriage, bumping shoulders and searching for whatever spot of their environment will allow them to avoid each other’s eyes. The students on one side, the family on the other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire looks strangely nervous. What’s the matter with that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the matter with what, love?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, he must have said that out loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just an observation.” he says, “You look nervous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh.” mumbles Grantaire, “I wonder if it relates in any way to the fact that we are on our way to a new safehouse once again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras feels the tiniest sting of indignation in his chest: “Understood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was unnecessary, but understandable. He can’t really blame him for answering like that. It’s true, it’s nerve-racking to be there again; the last time they were all sitting together in a carriage, they picked up a very dangerous criminal along the way, without counting that none of their escapes have gone exactly according to plan. Without counting two extra people, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels himself curl up a little. He really hopes it’s going to be a long journey until they stop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, not for the reason he expected. The only reason they have to stop is for border controls. Fortunately, they're good enough at passing for a rich family, and their documents are good enough to fool the exhausted officer checking them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras is willing to bet it wouldn't have worked six months ago. Six months ago, they would've been stopped, at the very least. Now, the fugitives must have become something of a myth among the more distant officers. They were far from Paris for long enough that most probably assumed they've already escaped far away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They board a ship across the Manche. Enjolras isn't fond of the idea of leaving France indefinitely, but he's long since moved past putting his patriotism above his companions. It will do him no good now. Still, it would be a lie to say his step doesn’t sway a little when he's a foot away from the shore. He's well aware that, once he takes that step, it might be a long time before he ever touches the soil of France again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought it could get past his friends’ careful eyes. He was wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only realises how wrong he was when they pass him by. Jehan smiles at him on his way up the plank. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire doesn’t even look at him, though. He does, briefly and lightly, pat the back of his head as he passes him by, ruffling his hair ever so slightly. He’s gone before he can process it, but when he does, it’s like magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His foot is on the plank before he knows it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sea is calm that day, a stroke of luck, considering. The shores of England are in sight before they’ve even left the port. Enjolras feels his fingers tighten on the parapet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does not speak English. He’s fairly certain that, out of their group, only Jehan can. Not only that, he knows for a fact none of them have ever been there. Or away from France, for that matter. The only one he isn’t sure about is Valjean, but all he can do is hope he has a plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the shore of France gets further and further away, his eye stings for the first time in what must be months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels the parapet move under his hands. Someone else is leaning on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t the end of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, R.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This war is getting interesting, I must say. It's a tug o' war, more like. And today, I win  :)<br/>Hello everyone. How are you?  :,)<br/>Well, I hope. Either way, I absolutely live for small physical acts of support. Someone please pat ME on the head. I will react about the same as Enj initially but then I'll melt</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. I'm Alive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know that this isn’t the end of you?” Grantaire repeated, “Sometimes I wonder if you know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras takes a moment to answer. He has to ponder, first, how much he agrees with that statement. Quite a bit, it turns out. Grantaire has a point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know if I know that." he admits, "Some part of me won't stop screaming that it is the end. I can't tell if I want it to be quiet already or…"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...or if I agree with it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t quite sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll shut up eventually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will have to quiet down when it sees you keep on living.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras can’t answer him. If he’s right, he’s right, and they will see it. If he’s wrong, something is going to die. Maybe not </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> will cease to exist, something will break. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe all of him is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire sounds so sure of himself. Why? Does he know something he doesn’t or does he just have faith in him? It seems unlikely, even now that he knows him better, for him to have true faith in anything. He hasn’t stopped being skeptical, at all. He had no motive to. Because, in the end, who turned out to be right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was right. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And he hasn’t brought it up </span>
  <em>
    <span>once</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why? Does he have no conviction, even in that belief? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Enjolras would like him to point out that he was right, but he has to wonder if he’s even realised it, if he doesn’t remember the kind of thing he used to shout or if he does remember and simply does not want to antagonise him and Jehan. The latter is more likely, but he isn’t sure he agrees with that idea. Grantaire has every right to reiterate his beliefs, he had the right to speak up even before they all found out he was right. So why doesn’t he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enjolras?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wood creaks under his fingers. His knuckles are nearly white now. When did he start squeezing the parapet like that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enjolras, are you with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right, he was talking to him. He wants to pry his hands from the parapet and talk normally, but he isn’t moving. Neither his hands, nor arms, nor legs, nor any part of him is responding to his commands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most importantly, neither were his lungs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was holding his breath. Why was he holding his breath?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands begin to tingle as the air returns to his lungs, and for a moment he thinks he’s getting better, but no. Another small breath and they freeze up again. His hands are numb now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire moved closer while he wasn’t looking. He seems to have closed his hands around his wrists; he’s trying to pry them away from the parapet, but without hurry or force. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take a breath, will you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, I can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could do it from the moment you were born. You can do it now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember when you helped me breathe? You took my hand, like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves his hands from the wrists to the fingers. The hands come off the parapet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you held my hand and you told me not to be silent. You’re shaking. You don’t have to smother yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He squeezes a little: “You deserve this air.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Four words.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You deserve this air</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t even thought about it, but… is that right? Is that what he was thinking about? Is that why his own body chose to turn against him? Is he not allowing himself to have even the air he needs to live? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breathe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One breath. Two breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breathe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One, two, three breaths, each deeper than the last. His hands sting with thousands of pins and needles with every ounce of air that enters his lungs, but his chest feels light again. He feels, finally, like he can live. Without hands, perhaps, but he can </span>
  <em>
    <span>live</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he will, won’t he? He’s going to live. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has been alive this entire time, but only by a half. Combeferre’s words come to mind again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m as real as you are</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was he alive? Is he alive? He will be, eventually, because he’s breathing and his hands sting and he can feel Grantaire standing beside him and he knows a ghost wouldn’t. He’s real, isn’t he? He has to deal with it. He’s real. He’s alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m alive.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They don’t move for so long, perhaps too long. Their hands are still locked together, almost unconsciously. Not a word, not a movement, not a look. Their eyes are fixed on the approaching coastline ahead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun is beginning to set behind them by the time they’re approaching England.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s the first time Grantaire speaks in hours: “We’re almost there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice comes out raspy, but it’s there. It’s a real voice. It makes Grantaire smile: “Good. I feel like we could all use a good rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” he feels himself say, “I’m exhausted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you weren’t breathing.” Grantaire points out, “That’s like running a mile.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It feels like it, though, doesn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras pauses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” he admits.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The exhaustion is rooted deep in his bones. It grows and spreads and blooms into every part of his body and, by the time they reach the shore, he can feel the lead in his spine, as Grantaire once said. It’s very accurate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His foot feels wrong against English soil. The sailors’ shouts sound alien to him. Even the air is different, somehow. He can’t help but retreat into the back of the group. There’s not a lot of people around, but the ones that are already look at them with a mix of curiosity and distrust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ship did come in very late, small enough to draw attention to itself floating next to the massive cargo ships of the port. Just in front of him, he catches Cosette clinging on to Marius a little tighter. He can only presume the darkness makes her nervous; it’s much too late for a woman of her age and status to be out on the town.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan and Valjean are conversing, very quietly, too quietly to hear them, in fact. It doesn’t sound like French, though, not entirely. His best guess would be that Jehan is revising. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire just sort of walks beside him, limping, as per usual. He looks nervous, but somewhat fascinated. Of course. A whole new town to explore, from his perspective.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He always was better at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a group like this, really, he feels like an intruder. The rest of them could feasibly be out on the town, but him? He looks too nervous. He’s sure he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they finally reach an inn, it’s like entering a bubble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shares a room with Jehan and Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment he lays his head down, all the air leaves his lungs. It returns in a harsh gasp and a single, dry sob into the pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a long night.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I can say this officially, but guys, we are starting to reach the end. There won't be more than three or four chapters after this one, but I can't say a number yet because I tend to overwrite a little  :,)</p><p>I don't have much to say. It's almost 1am but I wouldn't go to sleep until I got this out so see y'all tomorrow  &lt;3</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. A Dove</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He doesn’t notice the sunlight right away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does, however, notice that he's the only one in the room. It scares him, for a moment, until he hears voices outside and falls back against the pillow with a sigh. He's still so jumpy. Why?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They are safe. There is no feasible way for the National Guard to be a danger to them anymore. He knows that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But still, there's always that little corner of his mind that pushes and screams that they aren't safe, they will never be safe, because they don't have a home anymore. England isn't their home, and France seems like a universe away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It occurs to him much later that perhaps he's the only one who feels that way. It doesn't make him feel any better.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Out in the unkempt field beside the inn, he spots Jehan sitting in the grass. Marius paces around him, gesturing wildly every now and then, talking and talking until his mouth runs dry. In Enjolras’s experience, that could take a while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He decides to leave them alone and joins Valjean, Cosette and Grantaire at the breakfast table instead. Valjean and his daughter don't eat much, he notices, seemingly favouring simple and rustic foods despite their wealth. He has to wonder why that is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire doesn't eat much either, but that is rather normal for him ever since he was injured. He eats a little bit less and a little bit more often, to make it easier on his guts. It seems to be working. Still, something was damaged irreparably, they both know it, and his now almost certainly permanent limp and digestive issues are a testament to that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I wish I had studied English more." laments Cosette, looking at the other patrons rather uncomfortably.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t agree more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ah, come now." Grantaire chuckles, "This is your opportunity to learn it. Truly learn it, you know? They say you can't learn a language without speaking to people who know it and I, for one, am rather interested."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You make it sound easy." she mumbles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Please, don't stray too far." says Valjean, without looking up from the table, "None of you. Especially not until I've found a more permanent residence."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns to Enjolras: "What kind of arrangement would suit you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He means who's going to live with who and where." Grantaire helpfully clarifies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ah."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has to stop and think about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If it isn't too much trouble," he starts, "I'd rather stick with the group. Jehan and Marius are the only ones who can orient themselves even slightly in this country. Grantaire can orient himself anywhere."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You bet!" his friend pipes up beside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And me, I…” he paused, “Well, I’m not too sure where to go from here. I have time, though. Don’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Valjean gives him a look that he could only describe as </span>
  <em>
    <span>compassionate.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You do."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Marius returns soon after, pale as a sheet and followed by a composed, but visibly sad Jehan. Valjean and Cosette have left the table to go for a walk (and presumably discuss Valjean's unforgivable misconceptions of himself), leaving space for the two of them to sit across from Enjolras and Grantaire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The latter seems both amused and moderately annoyed at Marius's </span>
  <em>
    <span>discreet</span>
  </em>
  <span> attempts to peek over the table to examine his midsection.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know, my eyes are up here." he jokes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course." Marius stutters, looking away immediately, "I'm sorry."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's fine. Jehan, love, what did you tell the poor boy?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Only what happened." Jehan smiles awkwardly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, how dare you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I can be rather daring on occasion." he half-brags, puffing up his chest like a cornered bird. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, we know." laughs Grantaire, "We know. We all know."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence falls on the group.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yes, they all know. They know exactly what </span>
  <em>
    <span>daring</span>
  </em>
  <span> means, in Jehan’s case. In any case, actually, in any of them. They know it well. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter now, he reminds himself, almost forcefully. None of it matters. He needs to stop thinking about it. He needs to-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have a question.” says Marius. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes those thoughts away: “Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The boy’s voice goes quiet all of a sudden, the way it does when he’s unsure of what he’s saying: “Is it alright… do you think it’s alright for me to remain in contact with you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The table falls silent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then explodes to the sound of a boisterous laugh from Grantaire: "Marius, Marius, please! I'm trying to make a good first impression here. I can’t be bursting out like this on the first day!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marius seems to shrink in his seat: "Ah."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks around for help. His question hasn't been answered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras sighs. Under the table, he kicks Grantaire in the ankle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ow!" his friend protests, but he regains his composure quickly enough upon noticing Marius's face: "Sorry. What I mean is, that is a useless question, but I get that useless questions are questions. The answer is </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I'd be terribly sad if you just vanished off the map."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You don't deserve to be excluded from this." adds Jehan, "This thing we've got here. We've been helping each other out, you know? You were there too. You need help too. And, if you're going to talk about last June, I don’t think there's a better place to do it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras is aware that the side glances they're giving him are the expectations of a final verdict. He wonders for less than a second why it always has to be him until he remembers he has, indeed, made himself the judge several times.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I agree." he simply says, "Stray as far as you'd like, but don't be afraid to come back."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the tree beside them, a dove leaves its nest. They all stare at the white feather that fell from its side as it flutters down, down and further down, until it lands in Marius's lap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's not the only thing that lands there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don't notice the teardrop until his shoulders start shaking, though.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They spend the next few days travelling. The nervousness lingers, but the air grows warmer as the first hints of spring poke through the snow of the countryside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>London is not a place any of them wish to be in. They eventually settle on a rather unassuming town in the east, facing the sea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the first time in months, lulled by the distant sound of the waves, they sleep soundly until the morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the first time in months, Enjolras dreams of peace.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey guys.<br/>I know it's been almost a month. I kept getting stuck on this particular chapter, for some reason. It was almost too peaceful. <br/>I'm adapting to my new meds very slowly, but they are working!! That's good enough for me.<br/>Next chapter will come out sooner than this one, I promise. It's the epilogue, and it might end up being a little longer than average.<br/>I will thank you all properly then, but for now, let ms just say thank you for your patience and sorry for taking so long.</p>
<p>See you soon</p>
<p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. Epilogue: Home.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Years later.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It's late in the evening when they return home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan is laughing, red in the face, drunk on the joy of his poetry. He smiles with rare sincerity, in the back of their group, surrounded by three young English poets. He's found (and then founded, along with the three young men, Henry, Maximilian, and Jonathan) a group of his own, in a way, a circle of like-minded people to share his appreciation with. They spend the evenings together, at one house or another, discussing poetry in public and politics in private.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, when the night is over, Jehan always returns to the same place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grantaire doesn't go around as much anymore. Still, within a few months, he already knew the city and the surrounding towns like the back of his hand. It's a sort of natural ability of his, that of orienting himself no matter where he is. Grantaire insists it's because of how many times he's woken up in a completely different place compared to the last he remembered being at.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, but he takes the compliment. He takes every compliment he can, usually, given how rare they could be. His friends make a point to compliment him more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If any of them are likely to spend the night out, it's him, but he always comes home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There's a saying among their neighbours: </span>
  <em>
    <span>home is where Enjolras is.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It's inaccurate, in a way. It's true, he doesn’t leave home too often, but he's hardly what makes a home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is quiet when he's alone in the house. He doesn't like it too much, but it's worth it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where else is he going to find the time to study and write as much as he does? He lets himself sink into the pages, swimming in words and concepts until he finds what he's looking for. What he's looking for varies, every day; sometimes it's a word, a turn of phrase, something he needs to look into. That's where his mission for the next day starts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's an endless </span>
  <em>
    <span>tomorrow</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>today </span>
  </em>
  <span>just isn't enough for him, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>forever</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn't exist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not like </span>
  <em>
    <span>yesterday</span>
  </em>
  <span> never resurfaces. It's always there, at their heels, clinging to their backs, always ready to whisper in their ear that the past is destined to repeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It never does. The past can't be in their way as long as it clings to their backs. Even the past can't be in two places at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all write, in some capacity. Poetry, a diary, or essays, they all write.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>People around town were only distrustful at the start. Of course, there was always the odd one out who took to foreigners with a sort of morbid fascination, and those were almost worse. No, the ones that ended up their closest friends were those who had shown nothing but indifference at the start; not obsession, not hatred, just indifference.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan met all of his friends that way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's late in the evening when they return home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras, first of the line, leans down to pick up the letter that was left on their doorstep. It's from Marius. Back in France, he and his wife are expecting. He promises to come visit them as soon as they can, and a little scribble from Cosette on the bottom of the letter adds that they don't expect to be there before the child is born. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fair enough." laughs Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean also went back to France, though he writes just as regularly as his children. He sends pressed flowers for Jehan with every letter, and Jehan collects them all in an album that he swears is </span>
  <em>
    <span>for scientific purposes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They'd be more inclined to believe him if the descriptions he adds to every flower weren’t solely about its beauty, with little to no regard given to science.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They have very small rooms, one for each, and they smile when they say their goodnights.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good night</span>
  </em>
  <span>, they all murmur to the darkness, and the darkness says it back.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well, we are done.<br/>I must admit, I was having a pretty bad case of Last Chapter Syndrome, and that's why this is so late.<br/>I'm sorry I wasn't answering comments (and still haven't answered them), there are currently 27 messages in my inbox and I am feeling slightly overwhelmed but I promise I will answer to everything eventually   :,)</p><p>Thank you to everyone who read this, a special thanks to everyone who's been here from the start and has been so very sweet throughout all the hiatuses this story went through   :,)</p><p>That is.... all, actually. Thank you again, I can’t believe these 40 chapters are actually done  :,)<br/>I use this emoji too much  :,)</p><p>I love you guys  &lt;3<br/>Je vous aime très fort  &lt;3<br/>Vi voglio tanto bene  &lt;3</p><p>-Rémy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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